


Mistake

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood, Drama, Drug Use, Gen, Guilt, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Tragedy, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been many mistakes made in the long life of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, but the one he regrets above them all had the greatest impact.</p><p>"<i>In his entire life as a vampire, there always came a time when he’d have to face the fact that he was a killer.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mistake

In his entire life as a vampire, there always came a time when he’d have to face the fact that he was a killer. A cold blooded, dead, killer - taking some human’s life to prolong his own. It’s exactly why he always tried to avoid feeding for as long as possible, to wait until he could break into a nearby hospital and take some nearly out of date blood. Naught but a scavenger. It really sickened him, but whenever he was on cases the hunger could completely hinder his deductions and that was something Sherlock Holmes detested above anything in the world.

Really, the fact he still needed to feed otherwise his work would come to harm was just detestable. It was late in the summer, the constant rain subsiding to make way for a thick and humid air, and Sherlock Holmes had moved towns once more to continue his work as a consulting detective. Rather annoying that he had to stage his death every twenty years (that was always painful to do, especially the physical after effects of being 'more dead' for a day or so), change his appearance and his name just because he couldn’t age. He had advanced agility, sight, hearing and smell - oh and let’s not forget he was unable to die - but he couldn’t pretend to age. No. He always had to come up with some dramatic way to end his career, which was always trouble. A trouble which his brother Mycroft wondered why he even bothered with. The elder vampire had a private life in the British government, working in the ‘Vampire logistics’ department to ensure the general public were unaware of their existence and that other vampires didn’t know about other vampires. There were a set number of guidelines the few vampires alive (well, dead if we’re being specific) had to follow.

Sherlock always had a tendency to break a few, what with having a high-profile occupation which had him facing humans on a daily basis. Also there was the simple fact that Sherlock became bored easily and constantly needed the praise and attention of everyone in his company. It was a known fact, even to the vampires, that Sherlock Holmes was a genius and he had the ego to match. So it turned out that this summer, Sherlock Holmes (currently living under the name Altamont Yvole - a parting gift from his brother making him spend the next thirty-odd years with a fake Ukrainian accent) was on a trip to the neighbouring countryside of Bath to solve a most interesting case about a pair of murderers who stole the identity of Mr Richard Blake, and then proceeded to kill the only person who was able to identify the victim, Ms Charlotte Janes, and thus pin the murder on him. All in all making off with Mr Blake’s fortune from the predominant care-home business in the village.

Needless to say, it was a very engaging case but it had dragged on longer than anticipated and soon he was reminded of the fact he was a vampire. He wasn’t about to let a little starvation ruin his case but when he could no longer think through the dizziness, he was inclined to find some blood. ‘And soon.’ Sherlock thought, sagging onto a bench at the local park, his long coat and scarf out of place on the bright day. The visit to the local hospital had proven impossible to steal any blood plasma - the smaller establishments always had better security than the larger ones and stealing regular blood would make him ill - and he was starting to get desperate, tired and perhaps a little manic.

The more that time passed, the more he realised he would have to kill someone, but during his stay he hadn’t noticed any homeless in the village so he’d have to hunt carefully. Finding someone who wouldn’t be missed, had a dull life and was stressed enough that they would kill themselves (either literally or through a stress-related illness) was what he usually did. It always made him feel less guilty when he hunted carefully. In a village like this, however, it seemed like an impossible task. There was a high number of elderly... but none that he could kill without causing a huge media storm, especially as Mr Blake’s care homes had a lot of press at the moment over the murder. Mistakes were best to be avoided. Once he had been pressured into a case to find the person responsible for killing this man suffering from depression - a man Sherlock killed - and it took months to convince others that the man killed himself and that it wasn’t a soon-to-be serial killer. Not wanting a repeat of the incident, he needed to make a smart decision on who to take before coherent thought became impossible and he wouldn’t be able to control his own instincts. 

That was when he saw her sitting under a nearby tree. Judging by her uncomfortable posture, her trendier clothing and the styling of her ash-blonde hair she didn’t live in the village. A complete and utter stranger to everyone around her and, judging by the discolouration on her forehead and the skin around her right wrist she worked in an office. A drone - they were rarely missed. The woman was clearly stressed with her work (perhaps the fact her mother was suffering from dementia, too, and could no longer recognise her - yet again more evidence the woman wouldn’t be missed) and looked truly done out. This was his chance. A life to continue the case and then save more lives; that was Sherlock’s reasoning as he watched the woman and her surroundings carefully. Blending into the few shadows was as simple as breathing, and Sherlock had had years to perfect the art of disguise even with such dramatic clothing.

As soon as the decision was made, Sherlock rounded on the woman and dragged her silently into the nearby foliage before taking her life with a sharp snap. It was a quick death, Sherlock hated to cause people more suffering than they needed, and he promptly drank his fill - the warm liquid feeling like gold on his lips. It was sweeter than usual, which meant the woman had only just eaten, but the metallic tang was a welcomed relief as his thoughts and strength came back to him. The woman fell stiller in his arms. It would be no more than five minutes later that Sherlock Holmes realised his mistake and would stop at nothing to take it back, to repair what he’d done, but it was too late. The woman had stopped breathing and her skin was clammy and growing colder by the second to mirror Sherlock’s own skin. Dead. She would never come back.

John Watson was 7 when his mother was murdered. It had been a beautiful day in August when she decided to take him and Harry to visit her mother, who had been slowly growing more and more demented much to the boy’s aggravation. The young boy hated visiting his grandmother as she always called him Silvia (John had no idea who she was but he was certain he looked nothing like a girl did) and there were no other children there. Today had been his friend Joseph’s birthday party and he had been invited, but his mother insisted they both tag along - Harry was 16 at the time and had been more than thoroughly annoyed she couldn’t spend the day at a Blondie concert with her friends.

If John had succeeded with persuading his mother not to go visit, then perhaps none of this would have happened and the world would have been a much more different place. Perhaps in another universe John had convinced his mother not to go and she would still be alive. They went, however, and there was no changing that. The slumbering countryside village never seemed to change and remained in a constant static: a dull stone surrounded by bright and shining ones determined to never change. John could see how his grandmother was going insane here, it was just so quaint and boring that as soon as their car entered it, the young boy had sat having a tantrum. Harry just looked unimpressed, but after seeing that a local music fair was going on at the park she begged to go see it.

Their mother agreed, as long as the agonizing visit to their grandmother’s happened first. It seemed like an age they were at that house, and the newly-named Silvia and Harry were allowed to go to the park - Harry going off to the fair straight away and John staying nearer his mother, unsure of the older teenagers attending. “Go along and have fun, Johnny dear, I’ll be right here watching.” His mother had smiled to him, as she shooed him lovingly off towards a nearby fountain. Giggling to himself, John ran over and proceeded to catch invisible fish in the fountain. The cool water was a welcoming relief to the warm day and it didn’t seem so bad to be at the dreary village anymore, as fishing was just too fun.

Little did he know that those words were the last ones he would get from his mother. An hour or so later his stomach interrupted his game with a loud grumble and he wondered if mummy would let him go to that cafe again to get some cheese and onion pasties. On his way back to the tree his mother had been at, he was shocked to see she was no longer there. Was she hiding from him? John was good at hide-and-seek but he didn’t know mummy was playing it at the time. Either way, he decided to start looking for her as his stomach really was rumbling.

“Mummy? Come out, come out wherever you are!” A small voice had called from nearby, and Sherlock peered around the edge of a tree to see where it had come from - a small sense of dread prickling the back of his neck. It was a young boy, about the age of 7, who was looking around a nearby tree with a determined look on his face. A tree which the woman who was now lying dead before him had been sat at moments ago. 

Shit.

It didn’t take a genius to tell what had just happened and it took all his willpower not to throw up. A child. The woman had a child. How had he not noticed that? The stress had come from looking after him, not from her work! He was so stupid, of course no one was going to get stressed working in an office. The boy walked in his direction, growing a little more confused now, and Sherlock swiftly hid behind some trees to await the horrible moment the boy saw his mother dead. Not just dead, but covered in blood. Her blonde hair turned a rusty colour as the metallic smell permeated through the damp air. The foliage nearby was splattered in red at sharp angles and contrasted to such a violent degree. Danger, wild, savage. It was everything he was running from laid out in front of him for the world to see and it made him want to run faster but he had to see this. Had to remind himself. He could hear his brother's words in his head: ‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Humans don't care about their food after all.’ Sometimes he felt like the only vampire who did care, even if he denied it. The few he had met through Mycroft saw humans as just food and considered farming them. It was disgusting, and Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of the scene he’d just caused. One step, two step and the young boy was stood over the body of his mother, frozen in place. The look of determination crumbling into something painful, stiff and ever-so-vulnerable as the first of many tears began to form in dark grey eyes. Small legs gave out a moment later and the boy plummeted.

He sat there, clinging to his mother and whimpered her name over and over again. This was wrong. This woman was meant to have no one, yet she had a child... Whoever this young boy was, Sherlock had just destroyed his life and the thought of that alone caused his throat to clench up, let alone the sight of the boy. He really did feel like being sick, to take back everything he’d just done, but it was impossible. Sherlock knew that much - he dealt with life and death on a regular basis. He’d seen families cry over their loved ones they could never get back, children too, and had never understood the sentiment. But this was different. It was like someone had stabbed him low in the stomach and wrenched the knife so the wound couldn’t heal. It would only become infected and fester with time.

When other people found the boy and his mother, he knew it was time to leave.

John Watson was 7 when Sherlock Holmes murdered his mother.


	2. The Realisation

He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d just been, how he’d not even realised that the woman had a child. Well, as he learnt later from Detective Inspector Langdon, the woman actually had two children: the young boy and a daughter. Sherlock couldn’t believe how much of an idiot he was for making a mistake and it tore away at him due to the fact Sherlock Holmes did not make mistakes, he wasn’t designed to. It might have been suspicious taking this much interest in the woman’s murder - more specifically her children - but Sherlock needed to know. He needed to know whose life he’d ruined, so he headed straight to the police station after cleaning himself up.

“What’s the boy’s name?” Sherlock asked in his usual languid way. Langdon, briefly confused about why someone as cold as Altamont Yvole would even be interested, flicked through the file in front of him. Detective Inspector Langdon was middle-aged, the sides of his auburn hair turning a bright white with his eyes resting in deep-set wrinkles. He’d worked most of his life behind a desk and his slightly hefty figure displayed it clearly, a patchy moustache tinged yellow from his cigarettes was the icing on the cake. His suit, which was old-fashioned now in 1981, had become slightly discoloured from years of smoke and Sherlock mused that the cut was odd as well, almost as if the man’s mother had made it. 

“Uh, his name’s John Watson.” He said in a cherub-like voice, a heavy Welsh accent adorning his words. “Why?”

Sherlock just ignored his question. “Do you know what’s going to happen to him? His grandmother’s unable to look after him. Any other family?” This time Langdon placed Sherlock under a scrutinising stare. Ah, of course. He’d only been familiar with Sherlock’s methods a few months now, so he wouldn’t be comfortable with him speaking his deductions like common knowledge. It was still the awkward period where he’d have to explain everything to the idiot detectives. Sherlock would have hoped that after around a century of his work, detectives would eventually get a clue. “Isn’t it obvious? The reddening on her hands show she had been pushing a wheelchair around and she smelt strongly of a particular brand of disinfectant, but was obviously not using it herself due to it being an industrial product. You can tell she’s not a cleaner just by looking at her hands and clothing. It just so happens the disinfectant is used almost daily at the retirement home not far from here. Judging by the woman’s age, and the fact she's visiting from out of town, her mother’s suffering from dementia at this particular establishment.”

That seemed to settle the detective down and he looked up the answer to the previous question almost begrudgingly. It only made the reality of the situation settle low in the vampires stomach. This wasn’t the first woman Sherlock had killed, oh no, but this was the first mother he’d killed. His heart sank when Langdon spoke. “Nope. Nothing. They’re going to be put into an institution until they’re adopted or the eldest - Harry I think her name is - is old enough to look after them both.”

Sherlock paled.

This was worse than he thought. He really had screwed up. He’d really ruined this boy’s entire life. His fault, his fault, his fault. What could he do to fix it? There had to be a way to fix his mistake - there was always a solution and it alarmed him to realise that perhaps he couldn’t fix this one. As he grew more and more frantic, Sherlock felt the need to distance himself from everyone. When the static noise and typing and plain human noise became unbearable, he stormed out of the police station and headed straight back to his hotel. Leaving a letter to explain who the murderers were, how they’d done it and where they could find them didn’t make it any better and in fact only made him feel confined. He’d caught the killers, that should have made him ecstatic, but the boy’s weeping face kept crawling into his consciousness and he couldn’t help but notice the awful bureaucracy.

When he entered his room, he wasn’t surprised to find his brother there as the embodiment of yet another bureaucracy he despised. ‘Always sticking your nose into everyone's business, it seems.’ The glare he shot in greeting didn’t unnerve Mycroft in the slightest, he was used to it ever since 1891, as he sat in one of the chairs next to the sofa with tacky upholstery. The elder Holmes simply smirked with the corner of a thin lip, most likely finding the whole idea of Sherlock screwing up highly amusing despite the paperwork that would come from it.

“Take a seat, Sherlock.” Mycroft gestured to the seat opposite him and spoke in a firm tone of voice. He knew his brother wouldn’t take the seat and to prove that fact Sherlock made no notion to move towards it, folding his arms in an attempt to make Mycroft just get on with it. Mycroft always did wonder when his brother would forgive him, especially as Sherlock should be grateful not resentful. “I assume you know why I’m here.” A pause as he took in the sight of the vampire before him (he believed the pause added to the dramatic nature of the discussion). “How are you taking it?”

“I think that’s none of your business.” Sherlock snapped, his glare darkening. “Now that you’ve asked your question I think you can find the door.” The way his voice sounded, so gritty and raw, made it obvious how he was taking it. His snarl was displaying the base of a porcelain fang, which was unusual for the detective as only turmoil with his emotions would render him in such a state. Oh, indeed there was turmoil. He’d completely destroyed someone’s life because he was nothing but a disgusting, blood-sucking leech and right now he wanted Mycroft to disappear forever. If the latter were honest, Mycroft would say he was even a little puzzled his brother was taking it this badly. He’d never cared as a human, after all, perhaps...

“Why are you so concerned for the human boy? It’s unlike you.”

“I don’t care about the boy.” His lifeless heart clenched, did he really care about the boy so much? When he replayed the noise of the boy’s crying back in his brain, the churning in his stomach proved something he would rather deny. If he were lucky, Mycroft wouldn’t notice. “I’m just irritated this was more hassle than it needed to be. Now if you don’t mind, Mycroft, Altamont here has to solve another case.” Pale eyes leered at the older vampire when the name ‘Altamont’ was spoken. That had been plain childish and Sherlock planned to kill off Altamont sooner than his usual names, if only to rid himself of the ridiculous accent. As always, Mycroft could see through him. He was probably the only person who could see through Sherlock and know what he was going to do next, even if that was rare with the erratic vampire.

It seemed this time, however, he knew what was going to happen next before Sherlock himself knew and pursed his lips ever-so-slightly in disappointment. Surely his brother knew that simply could not work? Why would a human boy get to him, a heartless vampire, this much? It was a little nauseating how such a creature could get to the genius that was his brother. Either way, it was his sworn duty to remind Sherlock of a few certain rules he had to follow before he made it any worse. For both parties involved.

“You do realise, that for the benefit of all vampires, you have a sworn duty to follow society’s rules.” Sherlock quirked a brow at him from the sudden recital of the rules, but Mycroft continued without giving the younger Holmes a second glance. “Rule one: don’t tell humans that you’re a vampire. You’re doing fine with that one. Rule number two: you are not to befriend a human. Rule number three: you cannot marry a human or move in with a human.” Sherlock rolled his eyes now, letting out a throaty protest. It’s not like he was an idiot - his brother had written these rules so of course he knew about them. Mycroft, as he was so demonstrating, never shut up about them. If this was a stab at him breaking one of the rules unintentionally, he’d throw Mycroft out there and then.

“Yes yes yes, and rule number four is that I can’t turn a human and the next one is that I need to take care when it comes to feeding. I get it. I made a mistake. So if you could leave already I would very much appreciate it.” Mycroft shook his head but stood up anyway.

“I’m afraid you missed a few. One in particular I will not allow you to break, even under the current circumstances.” Sherlock continued glaring. He really didn’t care. He could break these invisible rules if he wanted to - they would only lead to his own death. The world wasn’t as suspicious as it had been in medieval times, vampires were more-or-less able to control their feral urges if they steered clear of humans (really, Sherlock had strong willpower for a vampire despite his mistake), and there would be no repeat of the mass-killings. Vampires had learnt to sedate their prey and feed regularly to control themselves; humans had become dim-witted and prone to ignorance. They believed vampires to be fairy-tales and fairy-tales they would remain so long as Mycroft Holmes remained in power. Seeing as he wasn’t going to get a reply from Sherlock, Mycroft elaborated. “Rule number four,” He stressed the word to show that Sherlock had in fact missed one, not that the younger cared about getting the order wrong. “Is that you cannot, under any circumstances, Sherlock, adopt a human child.”

Perhaps that one had slipped his mind, but of course Sherlock wasn’t going to break that rule! Ridiculous! How could he do that? Look after a child when he knew barely a thing about humans? He’d kill him in days. Plus, how would he explain how he wasn’t ageing. ‘Or, I don’t know, that I killed his mother.’ Sherlock scowled at Mycroft as though he was the idiot he was imitating. There was no way that would have worked, why was his brother always jumping to the wrong conclusions?

“Just get out. You know I would never adopt a child, Mycroft.” He hissed, motioning to the door. Mycroft shook his head as he left. His brother was always so stubborn about it, but he knew he must have cared somehow. Why else would he solve how people died? It was hard not to be concerned about the vampire’s well being when he knew that Sherlock could easily make it worse at this point.

It wasn’t until the evening that Sherlock recognized why Mycroft had reminded him of that particular rule. His mistake, that child, the tears on his face. Everything. They’d all built up tensions within until they exploded - the fragile seams of sanity coming apart. The vampire was curled up on the sofa at the hotel, his knees tucked tightly under his chin with the lights turned off - the only light coming from the moon who crept through the crack in the window. He was dressed in his usual clothing when it had just hit him. The most unrelenting and painful guilt he had ever experienced in his 90 years as a vampire was tearing his insides to shreds, and he automatically needed to fix it, needed to make it right. All because he was nothing but a vile vampire giving into his instincts, he’d destroyed a boy’s life. Took the most precious person the boy would ever know away from him prematurely.

Straight away his mind told him to adopt the children, but he knew Mycroft would be more than upset at the idea if he had specifically told him not to do it. Not that he was worried about what punishment Mycroft could come up with (Sherlock felt like dying and the offence wasn’t even serious enough for that - that privilege belonged to those vampires who did lose themselves entirely to their instincts and became feral, and Sherlock didn't want to even feign being feral to end it), but Mycroft’s words had a practical aspect to them. He’d ruin the children's lives more if he adopted them, he knew that much... There had to be some way to stop this hole from getting any deeper, to stop his heart from tearing in two. The thought of having a heart made it ten times worse - it’d been made of stone since his... best friend died a human death, so for it to be breaking for a second time was devastating.

Then the idea hit him. Of course, it wouldn’t make the situation any better but he had to do something for the child. Anything. He couldn’t handle this grief for another day if it kept him refined to corners of rooms. In fact, Sherlock wouldn’t put it past himself to behave more drastically to get rid of guilt for even a moment, so this was a plausible option. This wasn’t too bad - he wasn’t breaking Mycroft’s precious rules after all and, well, he didn’t know what else to do. Seeking comfort from his plan, Sherlock eventually managed to slip into a fitful sleep where he had curled up and awoke the next morning with the whispers of his decision still floating in the room and dried tears on his cheeks. The sleep really hadn’t helped clear his mind or give him the energy for the day, but at least he could start on distracting himself. The world was only a long chain of distractions when he was alive, which hadn’t changed after death. It was a daily reality, now, and adding another thing to the list of torments made the need for a distraction all the more vital.

Sherlock Holmes soon discovered he was on his way to one of Bath’s institutions, having glanced over the name whilst Langdon fumbled through case papers. He really should have been working on clearing his - well Altamont’s - innocence but the people of the village were so sleepy he would get away with it, especially if there were no more murders. The vampire might have been half-starved at the time of his mistake but he was still precise enough to get away with it and the thought of blood still made him indisposed.

With the mistake already chasing after him, Sherlock decided he was going to watch the boy almost as a guardian. His work could wait - there was no way they would work as a distraction at the moment. It had been easy to sneak into the place, sticking to the shadows that filled most of the hallways. He could hardly imagine such a child, so bright and full of energy, living in a place like this. Would he fit in? The whole idea seemed unlikely and it only served to cause the knife in his stomach to dig in deeper.

Maybe watching over him would lessen the pressure? Sherlock was nearly at the stage of pleading, he was that desperate. It wasn’t long until he found the boy (his name was John and Sherlock had heard the boy’s mother calling him in for dinner amongst a few of the many vivid dreams the previous night) sat in his room looking out of the window. The stool he sat on looked as worn out as the cotton sheets draped over the bed, and Sherlock wondered briefly if John's slight weight would cause it to collapse. He supposed looking out the window was a successful escape from damp walls and overly cheerful toys; particularly, Sherlock noted, the clown with a distorted smile John could only hope to mimic. Seeing the boy made the urge to flee worse but the vampire knew he deserved it and couldn’t cower away from what he’d done - he had to take responsibility.

Obviously, making contact with the boy would be against the rules so he simply observed. The boy’s posture was ramrod straight and guarded, his eyes lifeless and face clear of all emotions in an attempt to keep control over himself. He’d cried the entire night without anything changing so he decided to move on and ignore it; his father had left them years ago and John was fairly used to losing people. It was like his dog, Kit. John spent all his time with that dog, would care for it and even let it share his bed, but one day his dad told him he'd run away. John knew now the dog had died, was as dead as his mother, and it left an emptiness he couldn't control. Everything he felt seemed shallow, but he had to try right?

It takes a month for John to start settling into the institution and its routines, along with getting along with the other children there. Throughout that time, Sherlock Holmes does not take on another case and continues to watch the child, his feelings improving when John finally befriends a boy by the name of Frank Armstrong (a young boy with light brown hair, warm brown eyes and rose-tinted cheeks dusted with freckles) and the first smile crosses his face. It’s not a real smile, Sherlock can tell that much when it comes to humans, but at least the boy is trying to move on as he’s a strong one and that makes everything slightly more bearable. If he doesn’t give up, then he’s certain John will be fine and the thought of John coping with his mother’s death gives Sherlock some well-needed comfort. Though Sherlock’s certain the hole John’s mother left will never improve, it will never be enough, and in the end he's just deluding himself.


	3. The Outcome

It’s two years later where things started to go downhill for John. It had been a goal, something to look forward to, getting to live with his sister Harry when she finally became old enough for guardianship. Making friends at the institution helped along the way, but then children were always being adopted and leaving or being moved to other institutions that it became impossible to actually keep a firm grip onto anything - it always just passed by in an instant. So the thought of his sister being able to look after him, finally have some privacy and not share a room with the other children was fantastic. That foreboding sense of uncertainty would also go without the risk of him losing his sister to get adopted by another family.

It wasn’t that John didn’t wish to be adopted, he just knew he wouldn’t. Most of the really young children were adopted - parents who can’t have children or have recently lost a newborn to illness being the most likely candidates. It’s also due to the fact the institutions don’t try so hard to have older children adopted. Past the age of five, the child has already formed an attachment with their previous caregiver and is able to cope without them; they’re able to form friendships and develop on their own. Well, at least that’s what psychologists have said - John doesn’t believe a word he’s had explained to him by a temporary carer called Samantha, who was working at the institution to help pay for her university fees.

John briefly wonders what she’s doing now and if she ever had to drift along like this.

When his sister finally came of age and moved out with him, it was one of the happiest moments of his life since, well, that incident. The fact he was going to stay at his school permanently was fantastic as John - unlike most boys of his age - loved to learn. Plus, it meant he could keep some of the friends he’d made there and he wouldn’t have to change his name to something odd and foreign-sounding like Santanos. Not that John hated the name or anything; he just really liked the name Watson. After all, it was his mother’s name.

This brief period of solace came crashing down with a vengeance when Harry was unable to secure a job and therefore she was unable to care for John easily. On benefits, John could never get new school equipment but no one questioned it - he was an orphan after all and most people expected it of him. They expected him to be causing crimes on the streets of Bath. No one expected that his sister’s self esteem would crumble at the failure and drive her into a downward spiral of alcohol.

And no one, especially not Sherlock, expected his sister to be an abusive drunk and take it out on the only one who was there at the time – her younger brother John.

The empty wine bottle slipped from Harry’s fingers and into the wall, shattering into pieces as it fell back to the ground to join other bottles there. The noise bounced around the room like a wild bullet ricocheting. John couldn’t move; he held his breath as his drunken sister - his sister - terrified him with her actions. He felt tears build in his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall, couldn’t let them fall. If he cried now it’d just infuriate her more and this would be worse than just a shouting match. The ten year old is used to this already. A common occurrence in the Watson household, yet he can’t help but wish it would stop - wish someone would take it away.

It’s too late before he realises he’s muttering his prayers under his breath with eyes clamped tightly shut. Please get me out of here, please make it all go away I’m sorry.

“What’re you whinging about?” She slurs, walking over to grab John viciously by the top of his short blond hair causing those tears to escape in a waterfall. “Why the fuck’re you crying?! It’s your fault we’re here, you know that?” Oh yes, John knows that already. Knows that he was the reason his mother died. If he hadn’t played in the fountain, she would still be alive. If he hadn’t wanted to go to the park, she would still be alive. If he had put up more of a fight not to go to their grandmother’s house, she would still be alive.

Yet he didn’t do any of those things and now she’s dead. Gone. Forever.

It was his fault - his sister was justified.

The reality of the situation was that Harry had simply grown bitter towards her younger brother during their time at the institution. Her brother was able to fit in but her? No. The older sibling was open in her sexuality - knew she liked other girls and saw no problems with that fact. However, that didn’t go down well with the other children her age. Bullied, beaten, isolated; Harry couldn’t help but watch as her younger brother managed to make friends. It was only right to start thinking about how she got into her current situation and the more she thought about it, the more she blamed her brother. Her 7 year old brother who didn’t know any better and was just as devastated as she was.

Of course, she never acted on these thoughts. They rested furiously in the back of her mind like a nightmare as she tried to cope with all the angry voices around her - some even in her own head when she was hiding from her bullies.

Moving out was a welcomed relief. It made the voices shut up and she could laugh again. Now that she was away from the institution she never heard them again and for the first time in a long time, she felt happy. She tried for a job with her newfound confidence, but failed to get it, and the voices came back one bitter night. There was no escaping them this time, as vicious as before, so she took up drinking in a desperate attempt to numb them. Alcohol was a welcomed relief. It made the voices shut up but woke up those angry thoughts from before and every time she saw her brother.

Well, you can imagine what happened next. What happened almost every time she placed a new bottle to her lips.

Throughout this, the vampire watched. He didn’t back down on his word – he couldn’t do that. For two years he’d watched over this child and had been reassured by his laughter and smiles (obviously fake but at least the child is trying) and he could sleep some nights. The grief wouldn’t creep up on him and, when it did, he sat quietly in the boy’s room and watched the slow rise and fall of his slumbers until the sun came up and he had to leave again. It had been nice, for lack of a better word, and if you could call sleepless nights nice.

But this? As he watched the young boy shivering as he stood with this drunken oaf shrieking at him, it made Sherlock realise that the cruelty of his own actions were a thousand times worse than before. This had been his fault and yet the boy he’d been trying to protect had started to believe the woman’s words? It caused his stone heart to crack and pieces of it come crumbling off soon to be replaced by searing white rage. He had to do something. Had to make it right. Tonight.

The decision was instant. Concealed from oblivious eyes, Sherlock perched in a nearby tree and willed the time to pass by until he was able to act. Boredom threatened to creep up on him if not for a small colony of ants distracting his attention. It was a good thing that they did, too, for it was several hours until the light of the moon was blocked by the cold winter’s dusk for him to act. Now it would be simple. Leaping from the branches, he quickly passed through an alley up to the backdoor of the house and pulled out an assortment of lock picks from his coat pocket. One of Sherlock’s little secrets that he kept from his brother was that he had a knack for pick-locking (although, he figured Mycroft already knew and just humoured him) and had yet to face a lock he couldn’t open, even Mycroft’s high-tech military locks were a simple puzzle.

A smirk slid across his face. Child’s play. The low security lock only needed a small jingle around inside the keyhole until the satisfying click resounded through the still air. If the latch was on the door, however, a change of plan would be need- oh no, she left it off like the vampire had expected her to. How stupid...

Well, seeing as he was never one for rules, let alone vampire etiquette, Sherlock saw no harm in inviting himself inside. Almost immediately a wave of senses filled his mind, signalling where Harry was. The TV was on in the background, playing some tedious make up show, and the smell of alcohol permeated in thick waves from that general direction. He didn’t even need to use his other, more advanced, senses it was that much of a no-brainer. There was no surprise as to why there was so much alcohol in the air; the vampire had to watch his feet in order not to step on mountains of empty bottles and cans. Some of these were shattered into sharp, painful edges and he could see John’s frightened face in the fragments. That motivated him to push onwards.

He made his way through the house, which resembled a hotel room that had been badly neglected and trashed, and he couldn’t help but get a sense of stillness. The emptiness had an impersonal feel to it, like nothing would change anytime soon. Not warm or familiar but cold, isolated and ignored. They were waiting, not living, as though the habits from the orphanage had kept with them, making this less of a home and more of a prison. John’s prison: where he had to wait out his sentence in an endless purgatory. If one looked close enough, you could spot a dust-covered photo-frame atop a kitchen cabinet. Sherlock motioned to pick it up, cleaned the glass and came face-to-face with the woman he’d murdered, with two children standing either side of her wearing smiles which seemed so alien. It only took a moment, a stumble, to be caught off guard and for his large feet to knock a pile of bottles over, giving him away with a hollow crash. Movement followed and the TV turning off dragged the house into silence.

Sherlock slid back into the shadows of the kitchen just in time to watch his prey stagger through the doorway.

“Who’ser?” Harry slurred, the grip tightening around the wine bottle in her hands as a last defence. There was no one but shadows and silence - no cars on the street. Not a single soul was out there, which left Harry alone with the silence. The silence, who was very much dead yet seemed so alive, with a vicious smirk that seemed almost playful. She could hear its laughter in the air.

When she listened closely, there really was laughter. A dry, baritone sound which caused her blood to curdle. It was no longer playful but deadly serious with an anger that ran deep within its notes. Frozen.

Then her heart stopped when the vampire was in front of her - a blink and she'd missed him - and his hand a cold weight on her shoulder. Hardly a pressure but the stillness within it screamed with fury that was centuries old. When faced with fear, a human has two responses - fight or flight. With adrenaline flooding them they become incapable of logical thought. This was why Harry Watson, whose body had frozen to mirror the one in front of her, realised there was still an empty bottle in her hand and motioned to use it.

But the vampire's hand stopped that thought and all that was left was to cry. Regress. "What do you want?!" Her slur was long forgotten in the brink of danger. Sherlock simply glared at her, fierce unearthly eyes pinning her in place. Now that he was face to face with her - demon - he wanted nothing more than to drain her, risk the alcohol poisoning, and make her pay for what she'd done but...

That would make John's life even worse.

Coming to himself, his anger quelled with a twitch of the lips. "Do you know what I am, Harry Watson?" The heartless voice demanded attention and Harry couldn't even move her eyes - her eyes screamed 'no', unguarded, frenzied. Smirking, two porcelain fangs caught the light and they were all Harry could look at. "Yes, that's right. I could kill you with a single prick and watch the life flicker from your eyes."

The bottle slipped from her grip as Sherlock lent forward to speak into her ear with a low, melodic hum.

"But no, I am here for other reasons. Your brother-" His voice took a sinister turn and Harry thought of her brother lying in his own blood like their mother. Their mother! A look of accusation crossed her face with a sickening of the gut. "-is very dear to me."

Now Harry was confused. "And you do nothing but hurt him." He snarled. Insulted, she pushed the source of the spiteful noise away from her ear. 

“What- What the fuck’re you on with?” Logic escaped her once more and the correct answer, which should have been so obvious at the time, could not be located. It only angered her that she didn’t know what the vampire wanted with her or with John. She was about to explode, to shriek to high heavens in a hell-bound fit that this man was a murderer and that he would not touch John...but Sherlock’s anger was louder and ran far deeper into the recesses of his mind. It smothered Harry’s before it could grow into a candle flame with naught but a single look of disgust. It made her feel completely repulsive.

“You will not harm another hair on John’s head, otherwise I will return and you will not get away so easily. I will drink your vile blood dry in the most painful way imaginable. You’re nothing but a pathetic, jealous human after all - how obvious that is repels me.” As though to prove a point, his nose crinkled (She smells pretty bad too, I don’t think this smell will leave my nose for weeks.) and he put some distance between them both. “He’s a child. Do your job right for once and look after him.” Now all he needed to do was the dramatic exit. Oh, this was always Sherlock’s favourite part! It took him until he had one foot out the door to think of the perfect closing sentence - his brilliant last words he had to get in - so, naturally, he’d have to turn back and say them in a nonchalant tone of voice to show how beneath him she was. It was necessary. “Oh, and I would make sure you lock your door correctly. Might be an idea.” With that, he left the house abruptly in order for there to be just the right amount of coat-swish. Almost like a pen’s flourish as it finishes an elegant sentence. Sadly Harry was too drunk to appreciate it, and he also wanted to leave as quickly as possible in case she screamed (which would give him a nasty headache) and awoke John.

There was also the fact she really did smell bad and, much to Sherlock’s distaste, this was another smell from a terribly human response to fear. He just hoped car exhausts would clear out the smell. Will all this even make the situation better? He wondered, ignoring the small sound of doubt running through his mind.

An hour or so later, John was startled awake due to a loud and firm knocking on the door. It was still dark, much darker than when he went to bed even, and a quick glance at his bedside clock showed it to be around four o’clock in the morning. They never got visitors to the house during the day, so what anyone would be doing visiting at such an unreasonable hour was beyond the boy’s imagination. Perhaps they’d gotten the wrong house, but the knocks never came again and he couldn’t hear Harry telling them to, well, telling them something he didn’t want to hear. A moment or so later, when his heart had finally settled down after such a frightening arousal from sleep, he heard his sister let out a high-pitched profanity from inside the house. Obviously, this caught his curiosity enough to climb out of bed and settle himself in the hallway, listening in on his sister’s drunken explanation downstairs.

“I’m telling yous officers, he was a real vampire! He threatened to get me an’ my John I’m not making it up!” She seemed frantic now, obviously the ‘officers’ (police officers, maybe?) didn’t buy her story for a second. Neither did John, if he were being completely honest. At nine years old you know vampires are nothing but make-believe stories to scare little children who didn’t know real fear. In fact, the boy could only cringe at the fact she’d mentioned him in her ranting and raving - he would prefer not to be associated with her but of course he couldn’t tell anyone that. This seemed to catch their attention, too, which always spelt trouble if people were being interested in John. Harry would be so angry at him if she caught him eavesdropping. If only he could be invisible right now and blend into the tacky floral wallpaper.

But no. They brought up the boy straight away. “Who’s John then?” Came after a brief pause, possibly due to some murmurs between them both if John strained his ears enough. Then Harry made a big mistake - John even knew that much!  
“He’s my younger brother, but that ain’t important! The vampire is still out there!”  
“How old is he?”  
“The hell should I bloody know! He’s probably over a hundred! Looked about 30 thou-”  
“No. I mean how old is your brother?”  
“Oh, erm, nine?”

And that’s all it took. The next day social services stormed the place, took one look at the bottle and glass strewn kitchen and demanded to see John. He still had a puce mark that was speckled yellow across his cheek, which they prodded (That hurts you know!) and questioned about. Falling out of a tree just didn’t add up, court got involved, yet more people ‘visited’ the house and searched for living relatives to send John to. It was obvious to see where this was headed. A month later, John wished to be invisible again - there were just too many people invading his, somewhat unstable, life and all he could do was watch his old home disappear from the backseat of a car bent on taking him to an orphanage. He was sent to another orphanage where he’d have to make new friends and start a new life. Court’s orders - he’d have to be as far from Harry as possible. She was his only blood relative and it wasn’t her fault any of this happened. 

This time, the orphanage was very different.

It was much larger than the previous, fancier too, but the staff let inhabitants get away with whatever they pleased and John for one never wanted to join in with the other boys. Their adventures they would embark on involved fighting, stealing and breaking things people had worked hard to gain. Well, there was no way John was going to sit back and watch them cause distress to all they encountered, so he stood up to them.

Which just earned him a black eye, a bloodied nose and labelled him as a target for the rest of his time at the orphanage. His clothes had been ruined by them by the third day and his room was trashed. Luckily, John didn’t have any prized possessions to be sentimental over - he never had the chance to gain any - so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but the whole thing sure managed to make him feel isolated.

Now the urge to be invisible was even more desperate. If he was going to be alone, he would at least hope they would leave him alone for one moment. Some days, John didn’t feel like leaving the room and when questioned about his injuries he knew he had to lie. This wasn’t as difficult as you would imagine, as he’d already lied on his sister’s behalf and made himself out to be just a very clumsy boy. He was always walking into things like tables or doors or maybe even someone’s knuckles at high speed.

Yep. Just your average clumsy kid.

There wasn’t really any place he could hide except for his room, but there was no way to lock it so they could easily come in and tease him whenever they were bored. Boredom, John decided, was the worst emotion in the world as it always led to violence. John was never bored living in constant fear.

But when other children would just sit by and watch him getting kicked in the gut, he wondered why they just stood there. Sure, if they stood up to them they’d become a target themselves, another John, but they could at least talk to him when the gang of boys weren’t around. It was okay though. John deserved everything that came to him as he obviously didn’t know the difference between wrong and right. He was fine.

This line of thought was exactly the one Sherlock hated John having. The vampire had watched the house-turned-circus whilst John’s preparations were being set up and it made him uneasy. Sure, John was no longer getting abused by his sister (who had been made to attend rehabilitation for her alcohol addiction, but Sherlock couldn’t care less about her) but this meant John would be moving into another institution. It would have to be away from Harry, that much was clear, but Sherlock never intended the boy to be moved all the way to one in London. The new orphanage was massive, with far too many children for the staff to cope with. Sherlock hated it as it made watching over John ten times harder. He would have to sneak in on a night-time to check up on him. There were more creases on the boy’s brow from disapproving frowns, he noticed, and he knew it could only go downhill from there.

When he found John covered in yet more bruises, the knife in Sherlock’s gut twisted. It was his fault John was getting abused even here! He’d simply made it worse, not better, and he felt useless and sick. Everything he did to help John only served to make it worse and on other visits the bruises remained persistent. 

Then one day, Sherlock was unable to enter John’s room as the boy was awake. Crying.


	4. The Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sincerely sorry it has taken me so long to update this but exams and starting university this year took up most of my free time. Thank you for being so patient with me! I hope this isn't a disappointment for having you wait this long!

The crying was a persistent occurrence as the months went on. Bruises persistent, too, and Sherlock wondered how no one noticed what was going on. How could they forget about someone so _important?_ It caused Sherlock’s blood to boil. There was nothing he could do – really he was entirely useless in this situation – and he could only watch the boy cry himself to sleep. There was no way he could adopt him and remove the boy from this situation. The vampire wouldn’t break that rule, as he knew for a fact it would end more disastrously than all his other attempts at making things right. Confronting the children who bullied John like he did with Harry would have been ridiculous! He could do nothing but listen outside John’s window and stand back during the day, the sound of John’s muffled sobs looming over him throughout the day.

Perhaps if Sherlock confronted John and made him stand up to his bullies it would make things better? But would it make things worse? How on Earth could some strange man approach a ten year old? He couldn’t. It wouldn’t. The fact remained that John was unlikely to stand up for himself at this point. If he did it would probably just lead to more abuse. And telling the staff at the institution was completely pointless as they were far too interested in having the right colour tan. They hadn’t noticed.

John hadn’t been at the institution long before he realised he’d broken one of Mycroft’s precious rules. He’d told Harry what he was and what he’d done and, sure it had removed John from a toxic environment, but it had only made the entire situation worse. Somehow, he knew Mycroft knew what he’d done but he didn’t know why he was ignoring it. Anything filed away with the word ‘vampire’ on it flared up on the elder Holmes’ radar and was always followed up. Despite lacking motivation, Mycroft always took his work seriously and if there was someone available to go and check up on things.

There had been a few rogue vampires to go insane from eternal loneliness, and most of them went down in history. Most humans have heard of Jack the Ripper for instance. Sherlock had heard of him back when he was a human, of course he had, he’d been interested in the actual murder cases - they were all over the news, after all, and a consulting detective like Sherlock Holmes could never pass up an interesting case. At the time, Mycroft had only just been turned (by the murderer himself) and then Sherlock needed to leave the country...

Well, thinking back on those days was painful and he knew it’d be best not to add more fuel to the fire. He had the rest of eternity to think about the past if he was unlucky.

As the days went on, the more Sherlock realised he was growing slowly attached to the boy. The mere prospect of that terrified the vampire, if he were honest, as each time John had a bad night it hurt. It physically _hurt_ to watch John cry himself to sleep whilst knowing that he could do nothing to help. Such an idea was mortifying, really, especially when Sherlock had been lead to believe that a vampire’s heart was made of stone. His brother had told him that caring was not an advantage, so vampires couldn’t do it. They didn’t have hearts and yet again Sherlock hated being the black sheep if he had to keep dealing with things like this.

 

A few months passed and John was still under the same treatment. He’d learnt the boy who targeted him was called Cameron, along with two others known as Sebastian and James. He’d managed to find himself a small escape from them atop an old oak tree in a wooded area near the institution and, thanks to his and Frank Amstrong’s days climbing trees, he had a skill that the other three boys lacked.

To be fair, John was a fairly athletic boy and could easily fight back against the three boys – it was just that he didn’t like hurting others. Violence never solved anything, he was sure of that from experience, and he preferred to help others and stand up for those without a voice. At the end of the day it didn’t matter that the boys were picking on him, because they were then too busy to pick on someone else.

The tree had worked for quite some time, but then winter was fast approaching there was no way he would climb a snow-covered tree. If he didn’t slip and fall off, injuring himself in the process, he would catch a horrible cold. Neither sounded like fun so he had to deal with the boys constant teasing. It was going to be the worst Christmas he’d had since any of this happened, especially with the institution having such a small budget for so many children. John had a sinking sensation that they would force them to sing carols (or worse, get him to play his clarinet - he hated the bloody thing) but luckily those things only happened in the movies.

Christmas day was as bad as he’d imagined it to be, however. The dinner was disgusting with potatoes that resembled charcoal, but he wasn’t going to complain about that as it had been a gesture of goodwill. No, it had been James who had ruined the day. The boy had been known for his eccentricities and everyone adored the charismatic boy (or were too afraid to speak up, more likely), so of course everyone cheered when he stole John’s Christmas present. It was fine. He didn’t need it after all. And then the children received any mail waiting for them. Some children were sent gifts from distant family members unable to care for them; others were given gifts from kind people who donated toys.

The young John hadn’t expected to get anything and had tuned out the commotion in order to watch the fireplace devour the last of the wrapping paper whilst he fidgeted in his itchy Christmas jumper. Suddenly a sound thud caught his attention, as one of the carers dropped a gift in front of him before wandering off muttering something that sounded like ‘weird kid’ but John didn’t quite catch it. He didn’t want to either.

He was far too distracted by the package that was in his lap. A present.

It was confusing to look at, in all honesty. John was certain his close family was dead – except for his sister but she wasn’t around at the moment. A stranger out there must have known he’d existed, then, but whom? A quick inspection of the wrapping paper left no clues except the boy’s name - _To John H. Watson_ \- written in elegant, black ink like you’d see in a really old book. Confused, he carefully undid the paper to come face-to-face with a large smiling bumble bee with a bright green flower appliquéd onto the side of its fuzzy frame.

John had no idea that his face was full of so much wonder, so much joy, that he was almost mimicking the expression the bee was pulling. That was until he heard James’ harsh, cockney accent invade his thoughts.

“What’re you grinning over?” He spat, storming his way towards John. “A bee?! That’s such a rubbish present! What the hell are you doing with a _bee_?!” And the next thing he knew James had stolen his present - his one and only present that someone had bought especially for _him_ \- and he was watching the stuffed teddy slowly burn in the fireplace, its smiling face slowly melting into a frown before disappearing forever. Much alike the smile on John’s on face. Well, it had probably been an illusion anyway.

No harm done.

It wasn’t long until they had to retire to their rooms, but John barely noticed the time pass by. He felt empty, nothing, and he supposed you had to feel things to experience life like other people did. John was fine not experiencing life, as he couldn’t remember what it was like and that was probably for the best. Really his life had ended the day his mother had died.

The boy couldn’t even bring himself to cry about it anymore. Why cry if no one could hear you? It was a pointless task and would just make him dehydrated, if it was possible to feel thirsty any more. The fact it was past his bedtime didn’t register too well as he didn’t feel tired. He just stared at the cream wall of his room. How come all orphanages painted their walls in clean colours? It didn’t give the place a feature and made it soulless. John wondered if he could blend in with the wall if he stayed there long enough without moving. _Back to waiting_ , he supposed. How long had it been? Moving his eyes to the far wall, the clock read one in the morning. He was sure it had been seven only a minute ago, so at least something appeared to be moving in the stillness. Maybe the rush of time would carry him away without anyone realising, so they could all forget about him.

Surely, it should have worried him that five hours had been spent laid motionless on a bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep. Pointless. Why did he bother feeling things if the only feeling he felt was that of desertion? No one wanted him, that much was clear, and the only logical thing to do was to give up on the hope of ever being adopted. He hugged his knees closer to him, suddenly cold.

The emptiness was so consuming that he didn’t even feel the cold night air on the back of his head from the open- _hang on_. When was the window open? Another gust of wind seemed to speak to him in a way that was so sorrowful it was almost comforting - _“_ Everything is going to be alright, John...”.

_Wait a minute... Wind doesn’t speak! Screw waiting, someone's in my room!_ It had been a man’s voice with such a still uneasiness about it.

Sitting up as quickly as his stiff arms allowed him, he only saw the open window swinging slowly as if mocking him. Maybe he’d overheard the voice from outside and it really had been carried along in the wind? _But the man knew my name..._ Quickly rushing to his feet, and ignoring the temporary blindness or the fact he had to catch himself on the windowsill in his haste, he lent out of the window. It was silent, eerily so for London at this time of night, and the ground two stories below looked as daunting as ever. Confused, he shut the window and made his way back to the bed. Well, he would have if he hadn’t caught sight of a big package on his bed, decorated with that elegant handwriting again.

_‘Sorry about the bee, John.’_

Now his bewilderment changed to intrigue at just how someone had entered and exited his room without him noticing, had given him the present before _and_ knew his name. The mystery person at least had a gender, now, but he’d never seen a man with such sophisticated writing and this made him genuinely surprised. He had yet another mystery before him: what was inside the alluring package. Maybe he had a ghost following him? There was no way a man could enter and leave so fluently.

The package was in brown paper, sort of like the thing you’d send something overseas in, but it had been wrapped as though the person was in a rush. It was odd that the note had been written so neatly despite this... Either way, he wanted to find out what it was. Peeling back the paper and admiring the satisfying crinkle, he was presented with the thick black cover of a book. Now that it was in his hands, he noticed how well-weathered the cover actually was and aware of how delicate it was. Along its spine were the words ‘Anatomy, Physiology and Hygiene’ embossed in bold gold lettering.

John was unable to cherish the look of surprise on his face, as he soon found himself grinning widely at the book in front of him. Ghost or not, this person actually _cared_ about him and knew about his existence but he did wonder how exactly he knew about him. John didn’t know many men, after all, and if it was his estranged father he would be more than a little puzzled. After all, the man hadn’t wanted him before.

The little boy carefully opened the book - afraid it would break or crumble away like the bee had done - and stared in wonder at the page before him. The writing within the cover was from a new man and read in a more legible and precise scrawl, ever-so-slightly smudged too:

_‘This book is the property of Jonathan Watkins, Junior Physician. May 1872.’_

Without even thinking, John was already counting on his fingers and made the book out to be at least a hundred years older than he was. Surely the medical knowledge in it would be out of date by now? Why would someone give him this if he couldn’t use it? Ah! But there was more writing which belonged to the first man.

_‘Don’t worry, I’ve updated it.’_

And signed with an ‘SH’, which John presumed were the man’s initials. Mystified by SH’s words, John turned the page over.

The look of surprise returned. The entire page was covered, completely covered, in the man’s writing - filling up every margin and every space with his manic corrections. _‘No, this is out of practice now. Unethical.’_ The same could be said for the next page and the one after that, and the book kept John so deeply entranced the he didn’t notice the sun had risen until the call for breakfast was given. He’d spent the entire night reading SH’s notes (and occasionally Jonathan's notes which SH seemed reluctant to cross out, even if he’d have to correct them as well) on medicine. He hadn’t even made it to the next chapter and a lot of it confused him, but the diagrams were fascinating and it was soothing reading the words of the mystery man.

At one point, John saw a variation in SH’s writing which Jonathan had replied to, thoroughly annoyed SH had decided to write in his book, but surely that must have been wrong? SH couldn’t be that old. No one was that old. John guessed that there was now a third man who knew Jonathan when he was alive, however he didn’t feel the need to try and work out who they were. They were all his now, anyway. John actually owned something, and the muscles of his face were hurting from smiling too much.

A loud knock on the door nearly made him drop the book. “Oi Johnny boy! Breakfast time, dick splash.” came Cameron’s cruel voice and his good chain of thought instantly dropped. He may have something of his own, but this was a bad thing. It could easily be taken from him. The only solution was to hide the book somewhere they couldn’t get their hands on it.

Another, more devious, smile grew on his face with the idea of having a secret. It felt amazing knowing something that no one else did and he couldn’t remember having a devious side before but God, it made him feel so glad. An hour later when he realised he was feeling things again, John couldn’t hide the smile on his face and didn’t care who saw.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have some good news and some bad news regarding this story so I'll give you the bad news first.
> 
> I'm no longer really interested in Sherlock or this story, I'm afraid. I tried to get myself to work on this story and finish it, and I forced myself to finish chapter 4, but a collaboration with a friend of mine is really taking up my free time and all my writing muse.
> 
> The good news, however, is that I have a first draft of this entire story written down and I'll be uploading that. Personally, I'm not happy with the direction or pacing the story has made - which is why I've been reluctant to redraft it as the story needs a lot of work - but uploading something is better than nothing, right?
> 
> So I hope you'll be able to enjoy the rest of the story, even if I'm not really happy with it (I'm also struggling to proof read it as well, so if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes I apologise). ^^;

The medicine book was only the start of his good luck. John felt his confidence began to grow and he would occasionally give advice to some of the older children on their medical problems - with the book’s knowledge of course. He was actually helping others! This was enough to make John forget where he was and he couldn’t help but smile often. He always felt that Cameron and his gang were bound to bully him again, and they did, but he couldn’t believe his eyes when those he’d befriended stood up for him. In fact, the boys were eventually relocated due to their behaviour. Because they couldn’t hurt anyone, more people started talking to John again. He probably should have been annoyed at that, but really it was just nice to have friends.

 

You might think that would be the end of his good luck, but it wasn’t. A boost in his confidence also attracted the attention of potential parents. It was only a few months after receiving the book that John was adopted by Mr and Mrs Newbald, a couple who lived in the outskirts of London. They wanted children but were too busy and too old to cope with raising a baby; this made John an ideal candidate.

 

His new parents were lovely. Mr Newbald, who was called Mark, worked at home as a writer for an online blogging newspaper and his wife was a proprietor at one of the many museums in London. He couldn’t remember the name of it but he guessed it was some kind of art museum with how much she encouraged him to be creative. She even brought back the god-awful clarinet and he soon showed them both he wasn’t too creative like they were. That was okay, though, as he had other skills.

Namely, he really liked medicine – especially so if he managed to help people with it. He was also the type of person who hated not doing things, so he was always reading about medicine and he was able to pass all his classes with high grades. John had never _been_ so happy since, well, his mother’s death and his happiness was genuine (except when around aunt Gladis as she was a little too nutty and he couldn’t stand her). His family couldn’t be prouder of him and the watching Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how happy he was. Sometimes John’s smile made him feel breathless, and he wanted to stay and admire it all day long.

 

Sherlock didn’t even realise he was mirroring John’s smile whenever he saw him or that he was still following the boy as he grew up into, well, a young adult. The vampire could help but realise that he was a bit useless at this point. The job he was doing was inadequate and pointless now that John was growing up, yet the idea of leaving his post seemed insane. In fact it was insane. Sherlock had spent the past twelve years following John and his detective work had since crumbled away into dust. He’d have to set up a detective business again, which just seemed like too much effort when he felt like he had to watch over John.

 

If you had told him years ago that he would no longer be a consulting detective, it’s likely he would have just ignored you and your stupidity for even suggesting such a thing. Solving crimes was Sherlock’s only distraction from his eternal existence. But he was there, following John to university in the pursuit of a medical degree on an army scholarship.

  


“Oh Johnny, you really are leaving.” His mother exclaimed, steadying herself on the door frame to John’s bedroom. John didn’t understand why she was getting this emotional - he was only going to Queen Mary’s, St.  Bartholomew’s if you were being specific, so he could easily get a bus home every day if he wanted to... Not that he didn’t enjoy staying with his mother, especially now that he would be leaving her alone after Mr Newbald had passed away, it’s just that the entire university experience came from moving out.

 

“Afraid so. It’s not too bad, though, I get long holidays and I’ll make sure to visit a lot. It’s only around the corner after all.” John responded, focusing more on packing his clothes away. His mother was always like this and he’d learnt it was best to try and avoid it. It helped that he was enthralled with his task and the prospect of moving out, but it didn’t help that he didn’t catch his mother entering the room until she found something rather embarrassing and private. Heck, he hadn’t shown anyone it.

 

“My my, this book is ancient! Where did you find it? I haven’t seen this one around. Property of Jonathan Watkins. Wonder who he was...” Well, if that didn’t make his embarrassment worse he didn’t know what would. It was best to ignore the vivid over-protectiveness he felt towards the book; however he couldn’t hide all of the anxiety from his voice.

 

“Ah, well, a friend bought me it when I was little... It’s sort of a good luck charm so please, be careful with it.”

 

“I still can’t get over the fact you’re becoming a doctor. It feels just like yesterday that you were playing the clarinet. Wait. Did I say playing? I meant trying to deafen us with-”

 

“Yes. Alright. We all know I was bad, mum. Can you give me it back now please and let me get on with packing?”  And with a brief laugh and a crinkly smile, she carefully handed the journal back to John and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead as her first of many goodbyes.

 

She would convince John to visit every holiday.

  


Even though he didn’t live that far from the city centre, really, John knew the change from home to campus life would be a little... extreme. The dormitories were constantly full of life and the fact that they were situated in East London, well, the city life could be just as loud on some evenings. It was exciting, overwhelming and John couldn’t stop a grin from sweeping across his face the first time he walked into St Bart’s to study medicine.

 

To make the move even better, there was also a little thing known as ‘Fresher’s Week’. Now, those studying medicine weren’t exactly allowed to get completely out of their mind under the influence of alcohol - they had to remain professional (John envied those studying History undergraduate courses as the party they had during Fresher’s Week was talked about for months afterwards) but they were still able to have some of their own fun. Naturally, John attended. It was during Fresher’s Week that John met Mike Stamford, a slightly stumpy brunette with scraggly hair and glasses, alongside joining a rugby club in Blackheath which sparked a bit of a womanizing streak in John. One thing led to another, John entered the dating world and ended up gaining himself the name John ‘Three Continents’ Watson thanks to dating a variety of different women.

 

The first continent was Europe, and John had dated a French student studying Law. Then Asia, with an Indian Philosophy and Ethics student and finally an Australian Chemist. What can I say, John liked women. Needless to say John was pretty chuffed with his nickname and fit in perfectly with the university lifestyle - the work was challenging enough to satisfy his passion in medicine, too. He could easily balance a social life with his workload and sometimes even mixed the two by tutoring others (which usually happened to be an attractive woman, but no one but John really noticed this).

 

Oh. I mean no one but John and his vampire, who was currently in disguise as a Chemistry student at Imperial College, a neighbouring university. Mycroft did wonder why his brother wanted to go to university so suddenly (in the year the boy, John Watson, would be starting university as well) but he obliged. If you said no to Sherlock Holmes the tantrum would usually be worse than the outcome, but he at least asked why he wanted to go to university with no reply. Being in disguise as a student made tailing John easier, but he never went to any of the lectures or seminars and his work was far too simple and beyond dull.

 

Some days, however, Sherlock would lose track of John and in his absence would have to find some other distraction - usually making sure his deductive reasoning wasn’t being made redundant by showing off to his other classmates. He earned himself a reputation, too, as the most hated guy at the university. You had to avoid Sherlock Holmes at all costs and many were angry that he was the top student, yet never did any work. It was tedious anyway and Sherlock would rather trail after John when he was with a girlfriend, despite how awkward that made him feel. There was only so much stupidity Sherlock could put up with, and by the end of the second year he’d had enough and dropped out. The exams would take up time where he could be making sure John wasn’t in danger, even if John wasn’t going to be in much danger at medical school. In fact, sometimes when he did watch John he felt ill as, honestly, his job as a guardian was kind of pointless at the moment. John had friends, girlfriends and a career ahead of him and didn’t need Sherlock anymore, so surely the vampire should have felt better? Instead, it usually made him feel isolated and inadequate. The little boy, John Watson, had grown up and the vampire could feel him slipping away.

 

The worst part was John didn’t know this was even happening.

  


“Oi John, you coming with? Me and Kirsty are packing it in for the night.” Mike said, stretching as he shrugged his jacket on, his shoulder making a satisfying click as he did so. John hadn’t seemed to have heard him properly, his nose buried in his study notes, which made Mike shake his head at Kirsty. Kirsty was Mike’s girlfriend for the final three years of medical school and John was glad that, after two years of having a crush on her, Mike finally asked her out. Honestly, those two years had started to get annoying. John would ask Mike’s opinion on girls and he’d always bring up Kirsty Mayhew. “John. The finals are in three days. You can’t overwork yourself.”

 

“Hmm?” John finally raised his head, finally with the world again. He shot the pair an apologetic look before rolling his shoulders. “Sorry guys - I’m going to finish this last part. Need to get my head around recommended doses.” Kirsty joined Mike on the head-shaking.

 

“You know you’re brilliant enough at that already, John! Don’t be here too long, yeah? Although you practically live here, so I wouldn’t want you to get lost in the big and scary city of London.” She said, a teasing look on her face. John couldn’t help but smile, but had he really spent that much time in the library? His last hangover told him that he still had a social life.

 

“Don’t worry about me, seriously. If I get lost after living here five years I think I deserve to stay lost. See you two tomorrow, yeah?” He said with a laugh. “Oh Mike, I just remembered. I could help you with symptoms of respiratory diseases tomorrow if you wanted?”

 

“Same time tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, why not. See you later.”

 

“Later John.”

 

And with that the two left, leaving John alone with his books. An hour or so later (John was a little more than concerned he’d not kept track of the time) he was forced to leave as the librarian who worked night shifts couldn’t make it and there was no way the current librarian was going to stay a minute later, after an 8 hour shift, for one sad medical student. He hadn’t been walking for long when he resented the grouchy man. There was a logical reason for staying inside for so long - it was warm. Pulling his coat around him, he considered getting a taxi home... but there was the little issue of being a student in their final year. He had barely any money and knew he had to save it. In fact most days he just lived on pasta and baked potatoes. It was insane. Luckily, he wouldn’t be walking for so long as he knew of a short-cut through a side street (it had been invaluable when avoiding one of his first girlfriends - Matilda - who had a bit of difficulty understanding what personal time meant) and had turned down it on autopilot.

 

Which was when he was shoved into the side of the wall, the air rushing out of him on impact. In an attempt to get his breath back, he became alarmingly aware or the fact a large arm was pressed into his windpipe. And said arm held the sharp glint of a knife in it. He stiffened, his medical mind running through all the possibilities of surviving a knife wound. How long would an ambulance take to get here at this time of night? Who would call one? Where was the nearest hospital? Oh God, this was seriously bad. His body betrayed his mind and started to panic. Right. A mugging. If he gave the man his wallet, maybe, whilst distracted, he could get him in an armlock and take his knife away before calling the police?

_‘It’s worth a try!’_ As he moved his hand towards his pocket, his attacker increased the pressure. John couldn’t help but wince when he heard how strained his voice was. “Hey hey, calm it! I’m just getting my wallet.” He pulled it out and presented it. “See? Just my wallet. Take it.” As expected, the pressure lessened and John took in a relieved lungful of air. What wasn’t expected, however, was the man collapsing on the floor, due to a frightfully tall man wrenching the mugger away and shoving him into the opposite wall. From what he could tell, the mugger was now unconscious, but all John could do was just stare at his - _rescuer? New threat?_ \- in awe. Where the hell had the man even come from?

 

It felt like an age the two stood there in stunned silence, the man opposite looking at John as though he’d seen a ghost, before the stranger croaked out a question. “Are you alright?” The adrenaline in his bloodstream dwindling, John finally replied. “Yes. I think so.” He realised his wallet was still hanging in mid-air, so he awkwardly put it away. “You ok?”

 

There was no response and John realised he was being an awful example of a medical student by leaving the mugger, despite attacking him, on the floor. Well, he had to fix that, so he made his way towards the man. It was odd. The stranger had quickly stepped back when he moved forwards, as though John was going to harm him. Surely John should be the one frightened? The man on the floor was luckily just unconscious, so John put him in the recovery position and turned his attention towards the stranger who’d been acting weird. Maybe he’d hurt himself and that’s why he was acting so odd? John didn’t have the slightest idea and when he finally looked towards him, he was just staring at him.

 

Saying that he was unnerved at the time would be an understatement.

 

“Um... Thank you. For that. If it wasn’t for you, who knows what would’ve happened. Uh. Is there anything I can do to say thanks? Buy you a pint maybe?” John said to the obviously troubled man, but it only seemed to make things worse. He shook his head and John couldn’t help himself from watching a dark brunette curl bounce across his forehead.

 

“I’m the last person you want to be thanking.” John merely rose his eyebrow, confused.

 

“Sorry. Do I know you? I didn’t catch your name.” However, the man was already walking away with speed.

 

“Goodbye, John.” The stranger said, which definitely caught John’s attention. How did he know this man? How did the man know him? He quickly stood up from the floor.

 

“Hey, wait a mi-” But the man was gone already, his black coat billowing as he turned the corner. Now it was John’s turn to simply stare. “How’d he know my name?” John muttered to himself, but he mused that he was talking to the unconscious man. Did he really know him? His voice was familiar but he couldn’t put a face to it, and how could _anyone_ forget such a striking face? Another cold wind told him he should get a move on and go home, especially before someone else came along and queried about the man on the floor. John wasn’t in the mood to nearly get mugged and then get accused of mugging someone himself. He was just glad the man absolutely stank of alcohol, as people would assume he’d just passed out after a night of binge drinking.

 

John just hoped he wouldn’t get mugged a second time, as this was already too bizarre for one night. How would he even tell Mikey what happened? Could he even tell Mikey? John couldn’t help but laugh.

 

Great. Now the shock had set in. Lovely.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, this whole chapter is mostly a repeat of the last from Sherlock's POV and it irks me but here it is.

There had been a small privilege Sherlock allowed himself, now and then, over the past years. He knew he didn’t deserve it, part of him even wondered why it was now the highlight of his week, but whenever the opportunity arose he couldn’t help himself. It was like an instinct, only he never fought against this one (even if he did pretend it didn’t exist with such force).

Sherlock loved to watch John whenever he was in the library.

Not when he was with those stupid girls who constantly fluttered around him, those times made his insides coil bitterly and he refused to believe that the man he was watching really was John. No, Sherlock loved it when it was just John and his books - a thousand notes being made with an invisible smile on his face. The joy was obvious on every pen mark. Well, obvious to the vampire at least as most humans pitied the man. John was like an open book; a reassuring presence in a sea of darkness and mystery, motives and betrayal.

No wonder Sherlock was drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

 ---

There was one night in particular where Sherlock had been entranced by John working a few nights before the final exams. This would be one of his last chances to watch John in this kind of environment, the beginning of the end, so Sherlock was committing it to memory. He was adamant that they would stay alongside memories of others who were no longer there, but then the spiteful librarian cut it short and Sherlock reluctantly followed John home. That would be it for the night. John would go home and Sherlock would go back to his flat. Again.

Everything was slowly crumbling away from him, but he was unable to move. He wanted to remain blissful enough believing that it would just keep carrying on. Oh, it wouldn’t. Soon John would graduate and disappear but before that Sherlock’s life was about to shift on its axis quite significantly in a few minutes time. Sherlock was unprepared for it, and that alone angered him beyond compare as it proved he was getting slow. John was about to be mugged. It had caught him off guard so much that for the first few moments of the event he simply stood watching in a stunned stupor, as though he were detached from his body and was simply watching a scene from a movie.

Obviously, something had to snap. Something in his brain shifted under pressure, his eyes honed in on the blade, blinding rage...

The next thing he knew the man was on the floor - _Bastard how dare he touch John_ \- and John Watson was staring at him with just as much horror on his face as the vampire was experiencing.

_‘Well, shit.’_

In the silence that followed, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel exposed. As though he was in the middle of a solo performance and his mind suddenly forgot the next notes he was meant to play, followed by his name. If there was anything that would make him more frustrated than forgetting his words, Sherlock hadn’t come into contact with it. John could see him and he could see John. A deer caught in the headlights of a truck hurtling towards it. Could he move? Speak? Should he just run off? The longer he stood there thinking, the worse the situation became as John was having time to memorise his face and it wasn’t like Sherlock was too busy memorising John’s face, no way. When he finally spoke, completely out of the blue, he couldn’t even recognise his own voice it sounded so stretched, but perhaps that was due to not speaking for a while.

“Yes. I think so. You ok?” Now this was simply too much. He was talking to John. An actual conversation. In the 17 years of following John, Sherlock hadn’t contemplated it, and it was just sod’s law that he’d be tongue-tied during his only chance to speak with John. He couldn’t even impress him, couldn’t think, couldn’t be himself (which for a show-off was beyond daunting). His mind was screaming ‘You killed his mother! You monster!’ with unrelenting force. This wasn’t comforting like it should have been, it was mortifying. When John suddenly stepped forward, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from flinching or his need to get away from John. A fleeing animal or perhaps worse. Perhaps Sherlock didn’t trust himself to be near John as though he would simply make things worse for the man. His heart felt like a lead weight.

But John wasn’t walking towards him, no, he was walking towards the man who had just attacked him. More than a little more confused, Sherlock watched as John checked the vile man for injuries and cared for him. Why would he show such caring for a man who had wronged him? It gave the vampire a few moments of hope. Did this mean that John, despite all he’d been through, was a forgiving person? And that maybe, one day, Sherlock could earn his forgiveness? The idea of being forgiven never occurred to the vampire and he was quickly taken away by the illusion. Would John forgive him? Would Jonathan forgive him for living all this time? The vampire’s heart throbbed, but this one didn’t repulse him. It was warm.

Then John spoke and his return to reality was much more painful than he’d imagined. “Um... Thank you. For that. If it wasn’t for you, who knows what would’ve happened. Uh. Is there anything I can do to say thanks? Buy you a pint maybe?” Thank him? No. No this was wrong, how could John possibly thank the man who ruined his life? How could he possibly forgive him? The man didn’t know who he was speaking to. Yes, he didn’t know. If he knew he’d scream ‘Monster’ at him and run away, just like Jonathan had all those years ago. As tempting, and dear God did Sherlock want to talk to this man - to be recognised by him, as John’s offer was it was wrong. It was all false. He had to stay away from John, it was the only thing he could possibly do in such a situation.

“I’m the last person you want to be thanking.” It had hurt, more than the vampire expected it to, to admit such a thing to John. He wanted to be thanked, wanted it so much his bones would tremble at the thought, but there was no way-

“Sorry. Do I know you? I didn’t catch your name.” He was already leaving. He had to get away there was no way he could stay a moment longer, the entire thing was just too overwhelming. Too much noise in the silent alleyway.

“Goodbye, John.” And that wasn’t just now, it was for always. This was coming to an end and Sherlock needed to accept that. It was all coming to an end and John didn’t even know.

He didn’t know, and that’s what finally broke him.

 ---

It was little more than a month later that John graduated university. The vampire was unable to attend the ceremony formally, but he sat on a bench opposite the building and watched John with a grinning face. The man was so proud that he’d graduated (with a first, too, no wonder he was grinning so much) and Sherlock knew how much he deserved it. John had been through hell and back, yet he still wanted to help others. He wondered how it was possible to be so compassionate, but then Sherlock didn’t have a heart. Or at least he liked to say he didn’t.

And then, he was gone.

John’s sponsorship with the army had a clause - he needed to join the army. That was it. Sherlock had no idea where the man had gone, where he was training. He wouldn’t ask his brother. The man would know, of course he would, but Mycroft already disapproved of his input already and there was no way Sherlock could infiltrate an army barracks every day whilst John trained. He’d lost him. The very man who had been the centre of his world for 17 years, that was nearly a childhood.

He’d watched this man grow up and now he had to watch him disappear. Was this how parents felt when their children moved out for the first time? It could have been, but then parents always had the knowledge that if anything went wrong their child would come back. They’d also visit... Sherlock had nothing. John was gone and he would never return to Sherlock. Ever. The vampire was a shadow, and how can a shadow exist if not being cast by someone? People didn’t take notice of their shadows. They wouldn’t miss them.

It was thoughts like these which completely hindered Sherlock’s work. He’d moved to the outskirts of London, did a few cases here and there to distract himself despite how hollow a lifestyle it was. Though this was never enough. He couldn’t find the thrill of the chase, the mystery. A similar thing happened decades ago, but he eventually moved on. He knew he would move on this time. One day he would forget John, no matter how long it took. He had eternity (or however long vampires did live for - would it be until the end of the world?) to mull it over. In 2001, three years after John’s recruitment, a war broke out in Afghanistan. When Sherlock heard the news (he always watched the news - had to watch it for his cases!), he couldn’t breathe. He dropped his test tube of concentrated sulphuric acid when his mind had jumped to John for the first time in months.

This was worse than the end. John wasn’t just in the army, he’d go to war. He’d _die_ and Sherlock would lose him forever because he couldn’t die. He could care less for the burning hole in the floor, or the eviction to follow, as his insides crumbled away piece by piece. The next time he looked at a calendar he was in a police cell, confused how four years could have possibly past by so quickly. A constant anxiety settled in the back of his mind. _‘That’ll be the addiction.’_ He thinks. _‘It’s been a while.’_ He tries to move but his body protests at the idea. At least he didn’t wake up in a hospital like last time. Was that last week? Last year? He couldn’t remember. He needed a distraction and this cell was not helping him. The anxiety slowly circulated his body until footsteps along the empty hallways ( _‘Must be evening on a weekday - rarely people cause crime on a weekday.’_ ) and a short, squirrel-faced man appeared on the other side of the bars. His hair, despite his age, was already greying, and he looked at the vampire with a troubled face. Troubled? Why would it be troubled? For a moment, Sherlock wondered what he’d done in his intoxicated stupor that ended with him spending the night in a cell, but he was certain he’d find out soon enough.

“If you’ll follow me, I have a few questions.” The man, Sherlock couldn’t quite make the name out on his badge due to his headache but he thought it read ‘Lestrange’ or something similar, said before opening the cell door. Sherlock gave him a pointed look down the bridge of his nose. There was no way he was walking anywhere anytime soon and he hoped to make that point clear to the detective inspector.

He was unable to.

With a splitting headache turned migraine, Sherlock was seated in an interview room. He knew where he was, how could he forget? This was New Scotland Yard. At least he was still in London, that was a good start, but to wind up in a cell there means he must have done something serious. Maybe he invaded a crime scene like the good old days with Jonathan... His heart wrenched and he forced himself to pay attention to Lestrade’s words.

“Now. For starters, where did you get the drugs from?” He asked bluntly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Oh great. It was something as dull as _being in possession of a controlled substance._ The vampire was ashamed of himself for slipping so far.

“I don’t know. If you’re that desperate you could give me an hour and I’d have the names and addresses with you.”

“Names?”

“Yes, obviously. How else could I get this intoxicated? One dealer would never handle so much - it’d be too risky and he’d be caught in seconds.” Lestrade just stared, open-mouthed, at the man before him. He’d admitted to taking drugs and he didn’t even seem to care. “Is that all, inspector?” The vampire sneered. He sure hoped so. This was getting more and more tedious and he’d rather be getting high again. Thinking about John was too much. This explained the four years of drifting. He probably smelt like a sewer. Sure felt like one.

“No, actually.” Lestrade mumbled, staring at the man in front of him as though he were from a different planet. This caught Sherlock’s attention - maybe he hadn’t given himself enough credit. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he was tired from a case that had been going nowhere, he leant forward. “How on Earth did you know that the woman’s twin killed her? That crime scene was giving us no answers.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smugness from spreading to his face as he remembered, oh yes, he remembered. He’d walked past a building with ‘keep out - crime scene’ taped to the door and he just couldn’t help himself. The looks on everyone’s faces were stunning - an audience at last. “The evidence was right there despite half of you morons destroying most of the data. The house hadn’t been broken into - there was no force on the door. The woman was also wearing an engagement ring but it had been made to look like suicide. Why would a soon to be bride kill herself? If her fiance left her, surely she could have a reason to, but why would she have kept the ring on? Obviously not suicide, no, so someone with a key must have killed her. A look around the room would easily tell you that she had a twin brother and that they were close. There’s your motive.”

“Motive?” Sherlock tried to resist the urge to sound berating, but it wasn’t working. Those at Scotland Yard were still as blind as ever.

“Yes. They were close, but she was getting married. Her husband lived up north so she-”

“Hang on! How in God’s name do you know he lived up north?” Lestrade butt in, earning a glare from the vampire.

“He’s Scottish - the pictures could tell you that much. She was in the process of moving to Scotland as most of her possessions were already up north, why else would her house be so bare? The twin couldn’t take the loss of his sister. If he couldn’t stay with her, then her husband couldn’t have her either. It was jealousy.” The two stared at each other for a long time before Lestrade shook his head.

“Fine. Whatever. You were right, but I still don’t see how.” A sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips but Lestrade took no notice of it as he showed Sherlock back to his cell. At least walking wasn’t an issue anymore. When the door shut again, the vampire wondered how long it would be until Mycroft would find out and give him another famous lecture, but Lestrade stopped for a moment uncertain.

“Are you a private detective then?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No. I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world as I invented the job. When people like you have a problem they can’t solve, which is always, they consult me.”

“Oh, right. You get work often then?” Lestrade only got a glare as a reply, so put up his hands in apology. “Alright, alright. I was just going to say if, well, you ever needed any more work you could help us I suppose.”

“How thoughtful I’ll bear that in mind.” Sherlock snapped, turning his head to face the other way. He wondered if any of the carvings on the wall were made by hi- oh yes, there was one. A large ‘bored’ in the top right corner. He couldn’t remember putting that, but it was his handwriting.

“That’s not it though! I won’t just call you for nothing.”

“Obviously.” Lestrade could have screamed, the man was so full of himself, and it took all of his willpower not to.

“I’ll only call once you’ve got yourself clean, you hear me?” Sherlock shrugged and the urge to shout was getting worse. He thought it best to leave but then something dawned on him. “Oh, by the way, what’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Now do leave already, you’re annoying me.”

“Fine. Just make sure you get clean otherwise you can forget about it.”

 ---

And that’s exactly what the vampire did. It wasn’t hard to get clean, he hadn’t had a decent case in years and the mystery wasn’t quite the same without an audience. Well, if you could call those at Scotland Yard an audience - the only applause he ever got was: “Oh great, the freak’s done it again.” He never gave them a second thought, particularly a man named Anderson. The longer Sherlock spent around the man, the more he could feel his stupid comments infiltrating his thoughts. Never in his entire life had Sherlock met someone so _stupid._

The cases were a brilliant distraction. Coming and going, but sometimes Sherlock would find himself alone and the only way to fix it was to distract himself some other way. He couldn’t remember John, no, there was nothing left of the man in there, but the pain, the incapacitating pain, was still there and crept up on him in these black moments. That’s why he needed the cases. The work kept his mind occupied and away from the depths of depression. It wasn’t perfect, but it filled a gap.

This was his life calling after all. He’d work with Scotland Yard as a human and the years as a vampire hadn’t dulled his brain in the slightest, only sharpened it. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. It felt great to be using his name again, much to Mycroft’s distaste, but the cycle was good. The cycle worked. He even made a deal with those at St. Bart’s for supplies of blood plasma. He said it was for science, of course, but it meant that he couldn’t make a mistake again.

Sherlock would wonder why the word ‘again’ always followed that thought, but then he had another case to solve.


	7. Chapter 7

The adaptation from the fields of Afghanistan to the musty streets of London would take some getting used to, that was for sure. I mean, John didn’t hate it so much - he had a working shower in the London flat he lived in currently (but not much longer: the rent was just put up and his pension remains the same) and that completely made up for the grey walls and the quiet and the pointless situations that got him from A to B. Ok who am I kidding? John hated London, he hated his therapist, he hated how everyone kept on walking on with their lives and he just staggered along after them.

John hated that the most. He could not _stand_ his leg in the slightest. I would just generate pity and stares and ‘Would you like to sit in my seat, sir?’.

 _‘No I would not like to sit in your bloody seat!’_ He wanted to snap but no, John Watson was too polite for that. John Watson was too hopeless for that. He was trapped in the dull metallic streets of London. They used to be so alive and brilliant but now they were just...boring. Absolutely nothing happened to him. Things happened to other people - a friend from the war was just getting married and had kids.

He had a limp, no job and his mother had died when he was overseas which made him _beyond_ furious. Some old friends from the rugby club invited him out for drinks but he didn’t feel like going. He wasn’t the same; he was a broken shell of a man and going to a pub would just be dull anyway. Then his therapist insisted he should go, so he did. Lost his phone in the process because of it and felt extremely excluded, especially seeing as no one mentioned the leg. That was always worse than the pity - the fact people ignored it. He had a limp, yes, but he wouldn’t be offended if people asked him about the war or about how it happened - he wanted them to. He found it offensive when they just ignored it.

Ignored him. John went back to drifting when people ignored him. He didn’t want help, he didn’t want to be ignored; he wanted to be fixed and yet he knew that wouldn’t happen. To make matters worse his sister wanted to see him and for him to move in with her, but John didn’t want to be anywhere near the woman until she stopped drinking. Part of him still hadn’t forgiven her and now he was stuck with her old phone as a constant reminder of her. It was great. It was just great.

And don’t get me started on the nightmares, which he would awake from with ringing ears of an explosion and searing hot shrapnel in his leg. Maybe it would have been better if he remained reclusive? He wouldn’t be left out then, but of course one day he would run out of milk and Tesco deliveries to the centre of London were stupidly expensive, so he would have to go outside eventually.

It was on this bright and sunny day in January (even the weather was mocking John - trying to tell him the world wasn’t as grey as it clearly was) that he bumped into Mike Stamford again. The man hadn’t changed much, in fact he was still in Bart’s, but he had gained a bit of weight from when he and Kirsty broke up. John had changed, though. Just talking to Mike made that much obvious and he wanted nothing more than to buy his milk, get out of there and continue to ignore his upcoming eviction.

Then something caught his attention for the first time since returning to England - a something called Sherlock Holmes.

 ---

If he was being truthful, the last explosion hadn’t been his fault. His supplier had given him the wrong concentration of nitric acid and when he added that to the hydrazine he had stowed away, well, he was lucky he was wearing a mask otherwise his eyebrows would be non-existent. The flat hadn’t exactly survived the explosion and when his landlord saw the smoke, he wasn’t that pleased to find out his tenant had been mixing a carcinogenic ( _‘Reasonably anticipated to be a human carcinogenic, actually. There’s a difference.’)_ and a highly-corrosive acid a few floors above him. He evicted the man with no warnings, even when Sherlock tried to explain _why_ he had been mixing them. The landlord really didn’t believe that Sherlock was comparing different jet fuels’ burn patterns to determine what kind of fuel was in an aeroplane in order to prove a man’s alibi, especially if he was doing it in the house. Sherlock wondered where in the contract disallowed experiments? He didn’t keep any pets...

Oh well, it seemed Sherlock was now on the hunt for new accommodation, which was a pain as prices had recently been put up and he had only just informed his clients of the new address on Montague Street! He would need a place where he wouldn’t keep getting kicked out by morons, but it seemed impossible especially as Sherlock rarely got paid. He liked the look of a flat on Baker Street and the landlady owed him a favour, but he just couldn’t afford it on his own despite Mrs Hudson’s offer. There was always the option of getting money from his Mycroft...but he’d rather not talk to his brother in case he offered to let him move in. _No way in hell would he move in with his brother._

The only other option was to get a flatmate to help him afford the rent, as the thought of a job was too tedious. This was also the best way to annoy his brother. What else would piss him off more than moving in with a human? It only seemed fair after his brother had resorted to stalking him with security cameras, after all, and the plan would be fool-proof - he didn’t actually have to be friends with his flatmate and Sherlock could be sociable enough if the person wasn’t an idiot.

But that was where the problems arose - Sherlock thought everyone was an idiot so the task of finding a flatmate would be long and arduous.

 ---

Sherlock regretted the decision the instant Mike walked into the room for the second time that day. Of all the people, all 7-million people in London, Mike had to return with the very one the vampire had assumed was dead. The one who controlled his life, controlled his guilt. There was no way he was going to be flatmates with John Watson. No way. He had instantly recognised the man when he entered, how couldn’t he, but there were obvious differences. The leg for instance. Any thought of John getting a disabling injury like that had already opened up old wounds but then it got worse. On closer inspection of the man he could see that there was something more, a tiredness around the eyes or a sadness of the lips. John was _broken._ This was not the same John Watson; he looked utterly depressed and ready to give up soon.

The seams holding him together finally gave up as he took in the sight of John, leaving nothing but a huge gaping hole. A part of him screamed about how they can’t live together, it’s impossible, and Sherlock felt like fleeing again. It’s a feeling he hadn’t been familiar with for more than a decade and so he tried to create reasons why they can’t live together. For starters, John is a human and Sherlock’s a vampire - that goes against Mycroft’s rules. His brother might be right for once; the whole thing would be one giant mistake and it’d only end up worse. He couldn’t think under the conditions and the urge to flee appeared again, distracting him from the case he was working on regarding a superstitious man who died... Ah! So that was what happened! The green paint should have made it obvious.

It calmed him down enough for a hopeful voice to crawl into his head. This wasn’t entirely impossible. If he moved in with John, it’d mean he’d get back his old purpose and the crippling black moods would become less frequent, maybe, if the two even got along as there was always the chance they wouldn’t. There was the chance to make it up to John, to repent for what he’d done, and nothing was more tempting than the idea that he could put John back together before he got worse. John’s limp was clearly psychosomatic so he wondered if he could actually fix it. Would John want to join him on cases? Does he like the chase as much as he does? Well, he had joined the army so there was always that possibility, that hope. The more he thought about it, the more Sherlock came to terms with the fact that he couldn’t handle the man disappearing for the second time in his life. He was certain of that.

Though he had some things to do first as the pair were still in the laboratory at Bart’s and he still needed to see if John actually wanted to move in with him. Not the most social of people, Sherlock did what he always did: deduction. Would impressing John work? John would have to live with this behaviour, after all, so in the end it was up to John whether or not they moved in together. When he left the laboratory he couldn’t escape a glum feeling from passing over him, despite finishing one of his cases. People didn’t seem to like his deductions therefore there was always the chance John wouldn’t.

However, there was also some speculation around whether or not Sherlock could even call their previous conversation a ‘deduction’, as this was _John Watson_ \- the man he watched grow up. Oh and John was definitely a man now, not a university student. The war had weathered him, taught him, and his hair had even tinted grey around the edges. How old was he now? 36? How long had it been? For once, Sherlock couldn’t tell (he blamed the five years known as the ‘dark period’ for his odd memory) and he reeled off everything he could about John. Wait, no, most information - there was no way he could tell him more than he couldn’t work out from his posture or tan lines.

 ---

To Sherlock’s general surprise, John moved in the next day. The vampire could hardly believe it when he saw the man limp his way up to their new address. _Their address._ He could hardly contain his glee and when Lestrade visited to tell him about a new case, oh, he got far too carried away. And John didn’t freak out over that - he wanted to tag along. John called him ‘brilliant’ and ‘fantastic’ and for the first time Sherlock was getting the right kind of applause. There was always that small, niggling feeling in the back of his mind that John shouldn’t be saying those things to him, but the vampire was so selfishly happy with it that he clung to them. This was working out brilliantly, all he had to do was fix John and the fact the man was actually smiling (and survived being kidnapped by Mycroft - Sherlock would have to speak to him about that) seemed like the plan was actually working.

Then they went to dinner, and Sherlock realised there might be a slight flaw to his plan. Not a major one, no, it was minute as it only concerned the vampire. He should have seen it coming, really, but he didn’t.

John found him attractive, dear god, and there was no way Sherlock could reciprocate his feelings! That was a step too far. They could be friends, why couldn’t they, but for John to find the creature who killed his mother a possible partner was wrong. Sherlock couldn’t do it and, with all the strength within him, he declined...only for John to splutter and say he wasn’t interested at all.

Ah. Right. This was worse than he thought. Not only did his brain give him false information, but his brain had also given him false information. False hope. It all pointed towards something that the vampire would not dare to think about and he felt yet another knife, a sharper knife, crash into his heart. It was easy to fix - the vampire didn’t understand these things even when human, so it was easy to ignore. But he was curious...

Ignorance was bliss. He had a case to solve.

With John.

The smile crept onto his face again. Perhaps it would be harder to ignore than he thought but he didn’t mind. A chase later and Sherlock fixed John’s leg and the man’s _smile_ , his _laugh_ , were both precious items and they needed to be treasured. Sherlock made a note to see them more often and has a small victory over the fact he’s helping John, his blogger.

Yes, John was writing on his blog again, which was another victory for the consulting detective. He’d brought the excitement back into John’s life and you could see the young sarcastic boy so clearly in him, which couldn’t make Sherlock prouder.

 ---

Sherlock wasn’t so proud at the fact John was dating again, however, and the second knife only caused him to get angry and jealous. Some people would call him childish but the vampire simply _did not care_. John was his, he fixed him, and therefore he didn’t have to share him. He had grown selfish over the short time he knew John, even dependant on him; so dependent that he would sometimes talk to him when he wasn’t there. This wasn’t good, really, the vampire knew it wasn’t. In the middle of his black moods (oh yes, they still appeared and he couldn’t do anything to stop them) he could see clearly what was wrong. There was nothing wrong with the cases, with the flat or with John: it was his entire fault. Sherlock had foolishly fallen in love with John somewhere along the line. It could have been a month after moving in together, it could have been a few months after he started following him, but it was true. A moth to a flame and all that was left was to burn.

He didn’t expect it to be this painful, really. Life was happier. He wasn’t alone, John was still _his_ regardless of who he dated, yet he felt more alone than ever. A lie. A fake. All of it was fake. If John knew, he wouldn’t stand for it and their lifestyle wouldn’t exist. Their friendship, Sherlock’s only friendship, wouldn’t exist. As cowardly as ever, Sherlock stuck with it and continued to lie. It was painful, but he didn’t want to make it worse. For the first time in years he had a home and he was still helping John even if he was lying to him.

Sometimes you needed to lie to people to help them. The truth was painful - Sherlock had been told this numerous times. He needed the lie probably more than John did and that was the worst part: John didn’t need him as much as he did.

 

John just needed a distraction.


	8. Chapter 8

Over the year, Sherlock realises why vampires and humans can’t be friends. He didn’t think Mycroft actually had a valid reason for his rules except to keep the moronic vampires away from the general public, but after living with one for so long Sherlock couldn’t help but make a list of a few of them. Just in case his brother ever came complaining to him about being irresponsible. The first one is the obvious one that most vampires could easily work out. Humans are, essentially, a vampire’s source of food. There is always that primal urge there which Sherlock can ignore, but living this close to one on a day-to-day basis makes it much harder. Some days he finds himself invading John’s personal space without realising (thank goodness John just thinks it’s one of Sherlock’s weird quirks) or even blanking out whilst staring at John’s neck, knowing full well that under such delicate flesh is vibrant red blood which has the most alluring smell...

It disturbs him every time he snaps out of it and he’s lucky John has yet to notice. One day he will and Sherlock plans to just ignore him. That usually stops the questions he doesn’t want to answer. Another thing he noticed relating blood is that certain types smell better than others. Anderson’s, for example, makes him recoil and just the sight of the man’s neck puts him off of everything. It’s a shame, really, as if he accidentally killed the man he would be happy to save people from his inane babble but, alas, that won’t be happening when he’s so foul. You can probably guess what blood Sherlock is always drawn to, it explains the invasion of personal space, but it’s the last person he wants to harm! He wondered if sentimental attachment made the blood more appealing in some way, as John’s was beyond appetising, however he didn’t like the idea of befriending Anderson in order to see if he suddenly wants to start drinking his blood.

Sometimes the price of the experiment outweighs the benefits of the data obtained.

It’s not too bad just being drawn to someone, though, and Sherlock could blame his desire to be near John on human emotions instead of his animalistic urges, which made it better. He could completely cross this reason off the list if it wasn’t due to a few incidents that occur. During cases is a prime example of such incidents, as the two get harmed frequently and it inhibits the vampire when he can’t think straight because John has a cut on his forehead. Those are a little easier to ignore, however, because the worry for John usually blocks out the slightest desire he might feel.

It’s the stupid injuries which make living with John difficult.

 ---

“Hey, Sherlock, can you clear the table after all this I’d rather not sit in front of the TV again.” John called from the kitchen where he was currently fussing over a meal. Sherlock had tried to talk the man out of cooking for them both but John had been adamant on saving money, so, cooking it was. He’d bought a cheap beginners cookbook, moved all of Sherlock’s ‘junk’ from the counters despite the tantrum that followed, and had started making a stew. There was no way Sherlock was going to clear the table as he didn’t want to eat. Only so much human food could be digested by the vampire in one day before he was ill, and John had shoved two meals down his throat already. His stomach was screeching at him.

Upon no reply, no sound that indicated his flatmate had moved from the position he’d been in since he came back from the shop, John grumbled and proceeded to walk into the living room. “Seriously Sherlock. I’m not just cooking for you to hang upside-down and have a strop. Clean the bloody table.”

“Why should I?” He muttered, his voice a little raspy from having remained silent for the past five or so hours. John was amazed he actually replied. It gave him hope as maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would actually clean up. Maybe for once Sherlock would realise that helping John out was a good thing and ensured balance in the flat.

Okay. The balance of the flat was chaotic at best, but it was a nice thought.

“Because it’s nice to sit at tables. It’s only a few newspapers and cups, Sherlock. It’d stop you being bored.” Now John really was confused as, after a long sigh, Sherlock complied and followed him into the kitchen to clean the table. Albeit he looked like a zombie and John wondered how he could stay still for so long without the blood rushing to his head.

“There. Happy?” Sherlock said, sitting down at the newly cleaned table with an irritated look on his face. The smell of the stew John was making was already making him nauseous. John looked back at the table for a moment.

“Yeah, chee- _ah!_ ” He hissed before quickly pulling his finger to his mouth with his eyebrows knitted together. The cut wasn’t too deep but god it was stinging like anything. He paused for a moment wondering where the plasters were again. If they were all the way in his bedroom or lost in the clutter of the living room he wouldn’t be amused. “I guess this is why I never cooked before. Look, you were right.” He laughed over his shoulder, gesturing to the cut finger with a small smirk on his face. It was wiped off his face when he noticed how odd Sherlock looked. “Hey you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Sherlock had paled, eye wide, and had inched back in his seat. He honestly looked like he’d seen a ghost which, for a man as fearless as Sherlock, never spelt anything good. His flatmate didn’t respond, merely kept staring at him in complete terror. Well, that meant the meal was out of the window. You could never have an evening in without Sherlock doing something to mess it up.

John took a few steps towards Sherlock to snap him out of his daze and to check that he wasn’t faint or anything, when the chair screeched across the floor, leaving scratches along the lino, and Sherlock stood up so suddenly he nearly tumbled backwards. The doctor took this as a silent shout to stay back from his friend, so he eased off with calming hands to show he wasn’t a threat. Oh, the vampire couldn’t thank the man enough for being so understanding, especially in a time as dire as this. His whole body was trembling. It wanted nothing more than to lunge at John, physically jump over the table at him, and Sherlock realised he needed to put some distance between them before he lost control. He fed regularly, though, so he couldn’t understand why he was so out of it over such a small amount of blood.

Perhaps it was all the human food, perhaps it was John. He hoped it was the former but he could smell the blood in the air, so thick and fragrance so unique that he could almost taste it. Wanted to taste it. When he realised he was leaning forward, he forced himself out of the trance, gave one last desperate look at John, and rushed out of the house taking two steps at a time. He couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when the door was shut firmly behind him and he leant his head back against it to calm down. His eyes fell shut. The solid wood was a better barricade between him and John, but he still wanted to put some distance between them in case John got worried and started looking for him. The man was always so kind, yet so unaware at how close he had been to having fangs at his throat.

There was no way he could stay there the night, so he decided to go for a bit of a wander until he’d calmed down. How had a small cut driven him that berserk? He solved murder cases which much more blood than that and didn’t feel the slightest primitive thought. That’s what scared him the most, really. He couldn’t even think about hurting John, yet his own body wanted to hurt him more and he was afraid that at one point his mind wouldn’t be able to stop it. A few blocks down the road and the phone in his trouser pocket buzzed.

 _‘You forgot your coat. It’s cold out so don’t stay out too long, yeah?’_ The text from John read and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile a little at that. He knew they weren’t like most flatmates - most didn’t have criminals invade their flat regularly - but that had been odder than usual and he was surprised with how well John had dealt with it. He contemplated what to do for the night. His plan of wandering around London aimlessly would just distress John, so he needed to find someplace to sleep for the night. Ah, that would work.

_‘Off to see Lestrade. Something dawned on me; I’ll explain tomorrow. I won’t be back tonight so don’t wait up. Sorry about dinner, John.’_

_‘Don’t worry about it. I knew you’d come up with some reason to avoid my cooking.’_

 ---

A reason leading nicely on from that involves the human food which Sherlock detests. A vampire’s digestive system isn’t designed for food, so it takes ages for food to digest and that always leaves Sherlock feeling lethargic and slow. His brother is partial to human food, a lot of vampires are as they can’t let go of it, which is why he has issues dealing with his weight. Mycroft, however, has nothing against human blood so his stomach is more prepared for human food.

Sherlock, on the other hand, drinks blood plasma which has been donated - actual blood is rarely chilled and if it is, it usually has saline in it and _that_ would mess up a vampire’s digestive system more than food. This means that he has a regular supply of food, which is useful, but his stomach doesn’t really handle much food so human food just sits in his stomach and makes him feel ill. And that’s where the real problem sets in - John thinks Sherlock’s human, so doesn’t think Sherlock is eating enough. As a doctor, or more likely as Sherlock’s friend, John knows Sherlock should eat more so he’s always encouraging him to eat. If the vampire were honest, he was drinking more blood than he ever used to when he lived alone if only to make John stop worrying about him.

Sometimes, John forces him to eat human food when his stomach can’t bear it.

 ---

Short, angry knocks sounded on the door to Sherlock’s bedroom as John rolled his eyes, getting more and more agitated as time went on. They had been working on a case for a week, a whole _week_ , and John had noticed to his alarm that Sherlock hadn’t eaten a single thing. Nothing. He knew Sherlock didn’t eat on cases, or sleep during them, but that was taking it a little far. When he mentioned this to his flatmate, he proceeded to barricade himself in his bedroom and refused to come out. This couldn’t be good, John could tell, and the fact Sherlock wasn’t eating only served to make him more worried.

“Sherlock for God’s sake you have to eat something!” He said for what felt like the twentieth time, which earned him nothing but a dismal groan on the other side of the door. If he kept this up any longer he would break the door down and shove the food down his flatmate’s throat. He just hoped that it wouldn’t have to come to that, really, so he knocked on the door. Again.

“Just open the door Sherlock, or I’ll force my way in there.” John warned.

“I’m sat in front of the door. You wouldn’t dare.” Sherlock spat petulantly, knocking the base of the door with his hand to prove a point. John could barely believe this was happening. His flatmate, who was in his thirties for God’s sake, was sat in front of a door like a child. Actually the more he thought about it, the more he could believe this was happening.

“I will break the door down. Not eating is worse than a bruise, Sherlock, and you know it is.” There was no reply. “Right, I’m coming in.” John took a few steps back and readied himself. If he aimed for the left of the door he would avoid hitting Sherlock, even if it’d do damage to the door. Mrs Hudson had seen worse, though, and would probably see the point in it unlike Sherlock’s mindless destruction he called his ‘experiments’. He was just about to kick forward when Sherlock called out.

“Wait stop! Don’t break the door, I’d rather not get blamed for something I didn’t do.” John couldn’t help but smile triumphantly. A click and Sherlock presented himself in the doorway with an irritated expression. “If I eat something, will you stop tormenting me?” He said, rubbing the anger away from his forehead.

“Depends how much you eat.” That earned a smile on Sherlock’s behalf. Damn. John was slowly, but surely, becoming clever. “If you eat what I have here I’ll leave you alone.” With that, Sherlock finally paid attention to the food in John’s arms to have his stomach automatically clench. There was no way he was eating all that! Just looking at the pastries was making him sick, let alone eating them. If he didn’t comply, John would just keep annoying him and he needed his assistance for this case. The things Sherlock did for science.

By the end of the first croissant, Sherlock had locked himself in another room and swore that he would get his revenge somehow. Maybe bring home sheep entrails for some kind of experiment. He was certain he could think up _something_ in the name of revenge. Yet again, John knocked on the door but with much less anger than before.

“You alright?” He asked, concerned, and Sherlock couldn’t help but glare.

“I’m leant over a toilet, John, of course I’m not alright! I have better things to be doing!” Came Sherlock’s retort and John sighed. That was the thing with John, he always tended to sigh over nearly everything Sherlock did. There were three responses - the sigh, a compliment or something sarcastic. John was predictable and that infuriated Sherlock.

In the end, John did end up breaking the door down if only to give Sherlock a paracetamol and to wait around with him until the sickness passed. Sherlock reconsidered his revenge. He would admit that he was fine with the occasional stomach ache due to food if it got him out of regular illnesses, such as the flu. One time when he was human, he remembered passing out on a case due to fever. Jonathan freaked out but that had given him perfect ammunition to go ahead and solve the case. When human, Sherlock was prone to sickness when he went too far in his exertions, but after death he swam in the Thames for an hour trying to find a chest and didn’t even feel cold. It was odd, but he supposed with cold blood that didn’t move no pathogens could survive. A few decades later and scientists would work out exactly why vampires didn’t get ill but Sherlock could hardly care - it didn’t involve his work.

With a hundred years of not dealing with human illness, however, he would get out of the loop a little. He swore someone out there must have despised him the day John inevitably became ill, with pretty nasty delusions too. Thankfully, the internet existed to give him hints on what to do but his technique was a little more than awkward when his flatmate insisted on clinging to him, just in case the blue giraffe came back to mock his height.

There was no way he envied the doctor or his muttering and he would deny the fear that filled the air every time John had a coughing fit. He would shiver violently and sneeze and Sherlock lost count of the number of times he had to change the flannel on his forehead, John was sweating that much. Sherlock was genuinely frightened. How was he meant to deal with John when he was in a state like this? He considered the hospital but what if it wasn’t serious enough for that and John got irritated with him? Surely shaking shouldn’t be part of an illness and every tremor caused the tension in Sherlock to rise. Perhaps a second opinion was required? Was Mrs Hudson in? It sounded like the best option and Sherlock was about to leave and go get her when John awoke finally.

That settled it then, as there was no way Sherlock wanted John to be alone whilst awake, so he stayed put. Maybe John would know what to do; he was a doctor after all. Maybe John felt better.

“John does this merit an ambulance?” Sherlock rasped, his voice so small that the nauseous John almost missed it and thought Sherlock might be getting ill himself. He couldn’t help but giggle at his flatmate’s words, which only served to aggravate his chest more and bring on another round of coughing. Naturally, this didn’t have the calming effect he desired; in fact Sherlock’s face seemed more drawn as he stilled the arm wiping his forehead. Well, that was unusual. John realised he must have looked much worse than he felt if Sherlock Holmes of all people looked that worried. He shot a warm smile at him, gently removing the flannel and the anxious Sherlock before giving his hand a firm squeeze.

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock; I’m fine. It’s only a temperature. I just need rest.” John’s smile remained and managed to calm the vampire slightly, before something crossed Sherlock’s mind and caused the panic to set in again. John had never seen Sherlock so exposed. He’d seen the exact moment Sherlock’s emotions switched so clearly in the man’s eyes.

“I’ll go then and let you rest. I’m in the way.” Sherlock gathered his things together and quickly stood up, leaving John with a puzzled look on his face.

“Wait! You’re not being a bother, you know.” He said, causing Sherlock to stop in his tracks and look back at him conflicted. Did Sherlock seriously not know what he was doing? John could see the knowledge of illnesses coming in handy during cases, so he couldn’t believe the idea of him deleting it.

But, clearly, he must have done. There was no other way Sherlock could be this out of his comfort zone. “Just...relax, ok? It’s fine. If I need anything I’ll call you, yeah?” Sherlock nodded and swiftly returned to his retreat. Who was John kidding? Getting Sherlock to relax was damn near impossible. “Thank you.” He called out just as the vampire had made it to the door, catching his attention again with a sharp jolt. His nerves were all over the place and it seemed Sherlock was sporting the puzzled look for once. Well, he couldn’t help but smirk at it - it was unusual to see and didn’t seem to fit on the angular face. “For all this, I mean. I appreciate it. Didn’t think you’d take it this well, actually. You’re on a case, after all.”

“Don’t mention it. I could hardly work with you making such a racket in here.” And with that, he left, leaving John with his laughter. Even when helping, Sherlock was doing it for himself. Yeah, that sounded about right.

 ---

Of course, the real reason behind Sherlock’s actions derived from a fear that would announce itself frequently and the more serious the situation, the more crippling the fear. There was a fact that every human was aware of and vampires even more so. The fact that humans die. All humans come into the world with the crippling knowledge that at the end of it all, they die. It’s what links all humans together despite how hard individuals may try to be something more than a human. Many vampires see themselves at a higher status than humans for living eternally - Mycroft especially - but Sherlock never wanted to be a vampire in the first place. He liked the fact that his life would have ended, after all, a book that never ends gets a little tedious. It goes nowhere and no one would want to read it. If it has a start and an end, however, people want to know what they can achieve between those points.

A vampire can do what they like without a time limit, so most things they do could be considered irrelevant in comparison. The work Sherlock does matters to him, which is why he lives so close to humans. He wants his work to matter. He knows he can’t be a human, that much is obvious whenever he spoils the illusion and opens his mouth, but he remains interested in their problems.

He also remains interested in his flatmate, his flatmate’s well-being and he doesn’t want it to come to an end. Anyone who reads a book they adore so much never wants it to end and that was exactly the case with Sherlock - he doesn’t want John to die. As a vampire, he knows how easy it is for John to die _especially_ with the lifestyle they lead. Sherlock had never cared much for the fact he lived in danger, even when human, but now he hated it. The danger is what keeps John with him and the danger could just as easily take him away.

If John risked his life to save his immortal one, Sherlock doesn’t know how he would take it. It would be enough to drive him insane regardless of the loneliness that would follow. And if John didn’t do something stupid, there was always the death at the end of the road. There was no avoiding it, no matter what you did through life and Sherlock was afraid of it. Sherlock was terrified of death now, despite his lack of self-regard, and he didn’t want John to leave early. He didn’t want him to leave at all and the thought of him gone could be crippling. John had to stay, Sherlock needed him to stay, and he knew this especially one day John was shot. He felt himself fall apart. It hadn’t been a serious wound, more like a graze, but the emotional damage had been real. When he saw John collapse, Sherlock froze. His insides hollowed out to the repeating sound of the gunshot and he found his mind silent for once except for the single word ‘why’.

The word shattered and blind rage directed itself at the attacker - who had dropped the gun in terror the second he saw the vicious fangs. It was John’s voice that stopped him from doing something foolish and immediately he checked if John was ok. He could care less for the quivering mess of a criminal on the floor and this was when the fear hit him. John ended up mentioning the event in his blog and it alarmed the vampire that John didn’t think he cared. He had said it had been worth the wound, which was the last thing Sherlock wanted. To be honest, Sherlock couldn’t believe that John didn’t know he cared. Staging his death two years before to save John’s life had been an obvious show of care. Sure, Sherlock had kept his distance, it was vital to, but John had seriously not noticed his care up until then. It was obvious to the vampire. How many people did Sherlock actually want to spend time around? Sometimes Sherlock shocked himself with his behaviour towards John, with his dependence on John. After six years (well, three if you discounted the three he was ‘dead’) John was still there; John had stayed despite everything. It would have been heart warming under different circumstances but there was still The Lie.

This was Sherlock’s final item on the list and he wished that it wasn’t there; he wished that he had met John without his past input. Things would be different. The vampire was very secretive about his life, anyway, but having one less secret, one less mistake, would make things much different. Sherlock knew John wouldn’t have stayed so long if he knew what he’d done. He should have told him years ago, but the longer he leaves it, the harder it becomes to let go. It only gets worse. John _admires_ him too much to tell the truth now and he regrets not telling him sooner. Perhaps it had always been too late to tell the truth.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really dislike this chapter oh my god I'm sorry it's terrible for an ending.

London was miserable today. Sherlock had been looking out the window for over an hour now from his position on the sofa. He almost resembled a bird who had built a nest out of layers of blankets and pillows, with only his head visible. The heating in the flat had been broken a week now and Sherlock blamed John for being stuck inside the flat. If John’s blog had a wider reading then they would have more interesting cases and the time wasted sitting around the flat would be considerably lower.

Not to mention, they wouldn’t be stuck inside a freezing cold one, but it did beat the weather outside. Sherlock had been watching the rain race down the window in abstract patterns for about an hour now, the sound allowing his thoughts to drift whilst his senses were distracted by the gleaming droplets. If you asked him, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to tell you what he was thinking of; in fact, he was trying not the think and was finally succeeding in shutting his brain off. Or at least toning it down a little. He just felt calm, which helped seeing as a month previous the vampire had witnessed John getting shot. He should have paid more attention to the criminal and noticed he had a gun on him, but he hadn’t, and now those at Scotland Yard were giving him weird looks for being human. Even John was getting them for seeing him as a human. Really, Sherlock had hoped John wouldn’t have mentioned it on his blog, despite how touching the notion had been...

Sherlock was so in thought that he hadn’t heard John come in, until he sat down on the sofa clasping a hot mug of tea with his warmest jumper on. “Looks horrid out there.” He stated, blowing cool air onto his drink. “How long you been sat here then? It’s unusual for you to sit still so long given the circumstances.” Shrugging, Sherlock continued staring at the window.

“I was thinking.” That earned a small laugh from the man next to him.

“Thanks for clearing that one up; I honestly didn’t know you thought so often.” He snickered before taking a sip. The drink was still too hot to drink and had scalded him slightly, so he placed it down with a sigh. “What were you thinking about, then? We don’t have a case.”

“Hmm, maybe I wasn’t thinking then.” Sherlock said dismissively, losing himself in the rainstorm for a moment. “Aren’t they beautiful?” He muttered, completely fixated on them. John couldn’t help but stare in disbelief.

“The rain? Seriously? You’ve been sat here since I got up, probably longer, just watching the rain?”

“Yes. It’s rather calming.” Sherlock turned to shoot John a scathing look but he was stopped by the back on John’s hand on his forehead. He was going to question it, but when he noticed John was about to giggle he knew exactly what was going on. _‘Oh great, John’s trying to be funny...’_

“Just checking to see if you have a temperature. Don’t know why I bothered - you never get ill.” And with that, he removed his hand with a shake of his head when Sherlock didn’t laugh back. Sherlock just rolled his eyes at him, like usual.

“I can enjoy peace and quiet. Particularly if it’s away from flatmates who think they’re comedians.” John did giggle at that one and Sherlock shook his head; a smile graced his lips despite it. “It’s been six years now, John, and your jokes still aren’t funny.”

“People say I’m funny.” John retorted, going for his tea again. With the challenging look of ‘oh really?’ coming from Sherlock, John explained with a hint of pride on his voice. “Yeah. Lost of people who read the blog do.”

“Oh for god’s sake not the blog again. Do you ever stop thinking about it? Are you currently attempting to memorise this conversation to share with the general public?” It was true. John would talk about the blog on a daily basis - even when they were on cases. He had been given an offer to have some of the entries published, but John had declined and made plans to write up the adventures in a novel. Maybe even a few novels. _Someone_ had commented on his blog years ago suggesting that he should become a professional author, but once John explained the idea to them they berated him for it. Sherlock hated all of John’s ideas regarding his blog, however, so that wasn’t big news. One time, John had considered a live video blog and Sherlock made it very clear that he would purposely sit still for hours on end to deter the public’s interest in him.

“I wasn’t going to use this one, but if you insist. Anything you’d like to say to your fans?” John teased, making Sherlock glare at the innocent clouds outside.

“No. I have already tried to fend them off with the threat of a revolver, why would I want to speak to them?” Sherlock said absent-mindedly towards the window (it was rather distracting he would admit). When he heard the unmistaken sound of a pencil, though, he turned around fast enough to give him whiplash. John was sat there taking _notes_  of what he was saying. The detective could hardly believe it. There was no way he was letting John use the blog to tease him anymore than he already had done, so he lunged for the notebook, sending pillows and blankets flying as he did. “Give that here so I can dispose of it once and for all.”

John hadn’t expected Sherlock to actually lunge at him and he only just managed to move the notebook out of his reach. Sudden panic over the whereabouts of his tea swept over him, but he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the cup standing on the table - a burn wouldn’t be that amusing to deal with. Sherlock kept after the notebook, so John threw it into the mess of the living room. The clutter was much safer than with Sherlock. Unless Sherlock got the idea to look for it as John could never beat Sherlock in a search. It was best to put Sherlock off the idea. “You know, I can still remember most of what is in there even if you had gotten it.” He said, catching his breath from trying to keep Sherlock back. Then it hit him. “Jesus, Sherlock, you’re boiling! Let me share one of those blankets - it’s bloody freezing.”

 ---

To his surprise, Sherlock complied but he pinned it to the fact he was calm for once. “I see now why you sat staring at the rain for so long; it’s lovely and warm in here.” John almost purred, basking in the warm blanket. It felt kind of awkward sharing them with Sherlock, though, so he had to keep making sure he didn’t knock his flatmate. Kind of difficult to achieve when you’re so close.

“Stop fidgeting or I’ll take them back.”

“Well, sorry, but it’s a little awkward sharing a blanket with your flatmate.” John snapped, finally getting comfortable. If only for a moment - Sherlock thought it’d be funny to repeatedly kick him with his foot.”

“Why? We’ve been flatmates for years and one of our cases required us to share a bed. Although I recall you being a little more than displeased at the idea.” Sherlock said through the kicking, until John kicked back.

“It just is! The heating may be out but that does not mean I go around clinging to warmth.” He said, taking his tea back. Sherlock only had to smirk and raise a poised eyebrow for John to see the flaw in his argument. “Alright, so I do. It doesn’t apply to people though. Besides, I thought you hated physical contact.” His tea was _still_ too warm so with a disappointed face he placed it back down and looked at Sherlock. The man was staring at him, almost lost in thought, and John was surprised when he actually did reply to him.

“I do. But on some occasions it’s not entirely detestable.” He said blankly, as though he were stating a fact. Neither man noticed they were sat closer together, the colder edges of the blanket urging them together. John gave Sherlock a puzzled look.

“Oh, really? What occasions are these then?” It was unusual for Sherlock to ever enjoy (and John knew ‘not entirely detestable’ meant ‘enjoy’ by now) being near someone. He would complain about their stupid getting to him, and half the time extra sensory input would give him a headache. John felt himself being drawn to Sherlock’s small smirk. He knew he orbited the man - he was Sherlock’s satellite - but this was the first time he was ever aware of the gravitational pull between them.

Sherlock knew it was quite the opposite. John didn’t orbit him, he orbited John. Maybe they were each other’s satellites; that was a nice thought. Both lost in each other. “When I’m with you, obviously.” His eyes were too busy admiring John’s face to notice just how close the two were from each other, and he was completely caught off-guard the moment John’s lips brushed clumsily against his. It was just a pressure, but it was enough to cause Sherlock to tense up. Quickly his mind flared up telling him that this shouldn’t be happening, this was wrong, he wasn’t meant to be kissing John. John was just as confused as to what compelled him to kiss Sherlock, but getting no response from him made a stone sink to the bottom of his stomach. He was certain he wanted to kiss Sherlock, but he should have known Sherlock would never kiss him back. Maybe his flatmate was stunned and his brain was restarting? He hadn’t pulled back yet and, with that in mind, he started to move his lips.

The light friction against his lip made him shudder but this wasn’t from revulsion. The sensations had shoved his previous thoughts back to be replaced by thoughts that were so desperate for his attention. Sherlock had been ignoring them for so long that they physically hurt, and now that the situation had arrived he couldn’t prevent himself from pushing forward and kissing John in return. There was too much sensory input, so he let his eyes fall shut and allowed his unsteady brain to concentrate on the feel of John’s lips against his. He could feel the slight prickle of stubble, suggesting that John hadn’t shaved that morning.

Sherlock really didn’t know what he was going, and it looked like John was still getting his head around the concept of kissing his flatmate, but that didn’t make it any less perfect. It was clumsy, a little awkward and they bumped noses several times yet it was a little expected. The slightly dysfunctional kiss reflected their dysfunctional relationship far too well and for that reason, Sherlock couldn’t stop smiling. A smile smile, of course, but it had been the most genuine smile to cross his face in his entire life as a vampire.

Maybe the world wasn’t out to get him just this once and they were letting him have John of all people. Whatever the reason behind it, it was still happening and Sherlock felt safe with John. There were no fears of death, no fears of screwing up yet another time. He could only think about John; he gave himself fully to John. There was no one Sherlock trusted more and he felt a weight lifted off of his chest letting him breathe again.

John’s leg had been fixed by Sherlock all those years ago and now John was fixing Sherlock’s heart. They continued to kiss until their lips became far too sensitive causing them to reluctantly pull away from each other. Sherlock was confused that he actually felt frustrated by that fact, but then he was so close to John now and he couldn’t help but marvel over how big the man’s eyes looked from this position. How warm they were... The two sat in stunned silence, just looking at each other in admiration. John couldn’t get his head around the fact that, out of all the people Sherlock had come into contact with, he was the one to get Sherlock’s attention. He couldn’t believe it.

“Why me, Sherlock?” This seemed to get some of Sherlock’s attention but he was still in a slight daze. “What the hell could _you_ even see in me?” He asked, a smile carried with his words. Oh, Sherlock knew exactly why.

“It’s just always been you. The moment I saw you, I just couldn’t leave you alone. Sometimes looking at you was painful but I couldn’t look away in case I missed your smile.” He smiled to himself. “You would smile when you would study, did anyone tell you that?” Sherlock said, almost dreamily. Just thinking about it made him unbelievably cheerful. John, on the other hand, was a little bewildered with Sherlock’s words.

“You were at Queen Mary’s university?” He asked, a little confused. This made Sherlock snap out of his daydream and into his own little panic. _‘Shit.’_ John caught onto the fear in his friend’s eyes and he regretted his actions just as much as Sherlock did. Did prying cause the panic? John didn’t know much about Sherlock’s past and he supposed it was due to Sherlock being so protective over it. Sherlock had suddenly found himself in a corner and there weren’t many options for him. When a fleeing animal gets into this kind of situation, it has trouble thinking straight and Sherlock just wanted to get away from John. Now it was obvious he was just deluding himself. He should never have kissed John or lead him on because he can’t be with him. Ever.

Though he remembered how it felt being with him and John was looking at him with such worry... Sherlock wanted something he couldn’t have and now that he knew what it felt like, he couldn’t be away from it. There was The Lie, though! Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to think. Tried to block out John’s ‘Hey, what’s the matter Sherlock?’, his soft touches and his kindness. He started to tremble.

“I’m a vampire.” Came tumbling out and he lowered his head waiting for the explosion, waiting for John to put two and two together and pull away in disgust. It didn’t come. Instead, John started laughing. Opening his eyes, he looked at John with hurt clearly visible in his face. Couldn’t he see how important this was? He wasn’t joking! This was not a joke! Quickly, he stormed off to make some distance between them both. “This is not a Joke! I’m a monster, John and if you even used that brain of yours you could have worked it out years ago!” John stopped his laughter and thought about this in a more serious manner. So Sherlock was a vampire. It explained the lack of eating, but then how could he walk around in the sunlight? And vampires were just legend.

“Ok. So you’re a vampire. You haven’t tried to kill me or anyone else, so I don’t see what the problem is.” John attempted to console the vampire but he didn’t respond. Dread started to creep into John’s thoughts, the back of his neck. “You haven’t killed anyone, right?” Sherlock frowned and shook his head once. Silence followed, but John still didn’t get it. His flatmate was a vampire and he had killed people ( _‘Probably for his food...’_ The thought horrified him a little), and then he watched John when he was at university. How did all of this link together? John would have hoped that after living with a genius for six years he would be able to find a connection between events.

His flatmate hoped that he wouldn’t work it out, however, and watched the cogs move jerkingly around his mind. Waiting for the realisation was probably the worst part. It must have been how those on trial felt whilst waiting for their verdict. Or maybe more like those waiting for execution, as there would be no good solution out of this.

The penny dropped.

“...You killed my mother. That was you.” Sherlock felt his mind collapse and his body would have joined it if he hadn’t been frozen in fear. The way John has spoken was full of so much loathing. Sherlock had never had it directed towards him before, and he was stranded, exposed and wanted nothing more than to curl in on himself. To have the rug swallow him up was too much to ask for. He couldn’t find his words and John stood up, shouting. His whole image of Sherlock - his _hero_ \- for the past six years had changed in an instant. “Why her?! Why did you do it if you fucking knew she had kids?!”

The words cut through him like a knife and with a wavering voice he tried to explain, tried to fix it when it was too late to fix. “I made a mistake, I didn’t know--”

“You’re Sherlock fucking Holmes! You don’t make mistakes!” John snapped, causing Sherlock’s voice to shrink back. The one, most important, time he would ever need to speak to someone and Sherlock’s voice was no more than a whimper. A desperate plea.

“Yes I do! My whole life is full of them, I’m just good at covering them up!” If he could see himself, even Sherlock would think he was pathetic, so what hope did he have convincing John. He thankfully was too afraid to cry. John continued to stare with hateful eyes that burned everywhere they looked. They were worse than physical violence and Sherlock would prefer it if John just punched him. His hands were already balled into fists, after all.

“Clearly. You’re very good at hiding things.” He said cooly and Sherlock couldn’t look at him. The sight of John disgusted in him would be too much to bear. “What other ‘mistakes’ have you made then?” The vampire’s lips trembled, lips that had been kissing John’s a moment ago, as he opened his mouth but it was too dry to form words. There was no way he could speak, so he tried to calm himself down. He couldn’t breathe properly and was afraid he would start to hyperventilate. “Come on, spit it out!” John barked, making Sherlock jump. His friend had never ordered him like that before, as though he was nothing but a useless cadet. that was right; Sherlock was nothing to John. Not anymore.

“...I fell in love with you somewhere along the line, when I knew for a fact you would never love the one who destroyed your life.” Sherlock whispered, willing himself not to cry now. He would not cry in front of John - John didn’t want to see it and it’d just make him look even more worthless. John scoffed regardless.

“Right again, as always. And to think that I trusted you! That I would have, pointlessly, risked my life to save you and this entire time you’ve known! You purposely didn’t tell me just to use me to help ease your boredom!” Now, that was wrong. that was _painful_ coming from John. How could he think that? Sherlock had only wanted to help. It might not have worked, but it hadn’t been for that reason. Finding the courage to look at John ( _‘Oh god, he’s not even upset. He just loathes me...’)_, he tried to defend himself. John had it all wrong.

“No John, I would never hav--” But John didn’t let him finish. He’d heard enough from the vampire.

“Are you sure? Not going to make another mistake?! That was my _mother!_ You didn’t even tell me because you’re so cowardly! Just look at you! To think I...” Sherlock felt sick. “I need some air.” With that, John stormed out of the flat - completely blanking the concerned Mrs Hudson, who had heard some shouting coming from upstairs. When the front door slammed shut, Sherlock’s knees finally gave out and the last of his hope shattered when he hit the floor. There was no stopping the tears after the first one ran down the side of his nose, yet they came out in forceful chokes. Mrs Hudson had never seen Sherlock like this and didn’t know if he’d react violently to her, so she left him to go and call Mycroft. He knew Sherlock the best after all.

_‘I know, Mrs Hudson. I knew this would come one day.”_

 ---

The next day, Sherlock sat curled up against his bedroom door listening to John pottering around in the kitchen but he wasn’t making breakfast, that much was obvious. No, he was packing his things. He was leaving and Sherlock couldn’t do anything to stop him. Sitting in silence was his only option. If he stayed out of John’s way, it’d be less painful and they wouldn’t get into another argument. Sherlock didn’t think he could handle another one as his throat and eyes still stung from the last one. Plus, he didn’t want John to see him and call him cowardly again. This was probably more cowardly to do, however seeing John now would be worse - he’d most likely resort to begging.

The vampire was actually tempted to do that, but it wouldn’t change John’s mind. If Mrs Hudson couldn’t change his mind, then no one could. Begging was also beneath the Holmes family and Sherlock wanted to at least keep some of his dignity before the end of this. Hugging your knees in a doorway, though, lacked a lot of dignity - how much lower could he possibly go? He held in a sniffle as he heard John pass his door into the bathroom. At least John was erasing himself from Sherlock’s life so he wouldn’t have to. That would have been impossible and he would torment himself more just looking at everything that reminded him of John.

This included the flat and Sherlock was adamant he couldn’t stay, even if Mrs Hudson insisted. If he had to walk around the building that would never hold a John Watson in again, he was certain it would drive him mad. Although, if he were quite honest, going mad didn’t seem like a bad idea. It’d at least stop him from trying to find redemption in all the wrong places, as well as stop this from happening a third time. Jonathan had called him a vile monster, too, and he had known him whilst human. Maybe he was always a monster and his brother was right.

He pulled his knees closer to him as her heard John make his way down the seventeen steps for the last time. Neither of them called out goodbye and the sound of the front door closing behind the most important man in Sherlock’s life rang out through the silent house.

The tears wouldn't come to tired eyes, buy Sherlock couldn’t stop shaking. Was this what heartbreak felt like? His whole chest had constricted and Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to move; he wanted to pretend John was still there. He wasn’t. Sherlock had heard him place the front door key on the kitchen table. That was it then. John was gone; Sherlock had lost him for the second time in his life and he couldn’t go on. What was the point of his cases if John wasn’t on them? Wasn’t there to admire him? It would be a good idea to avoid the internet for a while, too, as Sherlock knew John would write something scathing on his blog. Perhaps he already had. Perhaps it read something like: ‘Everyone kept telling me that he was a freak, a monster, but I didn’t believe them. I can’t believe it took me this long to notice they were all telling the truth.’

He bit on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood in an attempt to stop a whimper. This was supposed to happen, so he couldn’t complain. Once, he had told John he wasn’t a hero and John didn’t believe him. Now he told John he wasn’t a monster and John still didn’t believe him. Sherlock wondered why John had believed him when no one else would, or why he even kissed him, but it was too late to find out. Couldn’t this end already? The option of suicide was looking promising if it stopped him from feeling like this any longer but he didn’t know how to kill vampires. Mycroft had a good reason to keep that knowledge secret - he wanted to torture them. Surely starving himself would kill him off eventually, if not it would at least turn him feral and then the law would have to kill him anyway. Sherlock would do anything to stop his chest from throbbing.

 ---

Not too many hours later, Sherlock hadn’t been keeping count, he awoke from a bleak sleep when he heard footsteps on the staircase. He sat up to get a better listen, his mind whirring, but he settled back against the door when he heard the sound of a cane. Or, more likely, an umbrella. Mycroft had come to berate him; he should have guessed it would be him. There was no point staying quiet, as Mycroft knew exactly where he would be, but he didn’t want to call out either. Everywhere hurt and he didn’t appreciate the loud knock on his bedroom door that followed.

“Sherlock, let me in.” Mycroft said in his usual placid voice as though nothing had actually happened. The younger vampire didn’t want to see him and Mycroft couldn’t help a sigh. “Do stop being so childish - I know you can hear me perfectly well.” More silence and he looked at his pocket-watch in disdain. This was going to take a while, he could tell.

“If you’re in such a rush, kindly fuck off.” Sherlock croaked, wincing when his voice didn’t sound anywhere near as bored as he hoped. Rubbing the bridge of his noise, Mycroft called through the door.

“I did warn you that growing attached to humans brought you nothing but pain.” A sob caught in Sherlock’s throat but Mycroft heard it. He could always tell when Sherlock was crying - the man was still as obvious as he had been whilst young. “Let me in, Sherlock. Please.” His voice was more sympathetic than before and reluctantly Sherlock moved out of the way, if only to get him to leave quicker. Sherlock kept his gaze on the other end of the room.

“I know why you’re here, Mycroft. You’ve come to brag about how great it is to be an emotionless vampire and tell be how idiotic I’ve been.” The elder vampire shook his head, his look softening when he saw the wreck of a vampire before him. His brother always wore masks - all Holmes did - but Sherlock especially so. As the black sheep of the family, Sherlock had more emotions than the rest of them and he had never really fit in. Their mother was annoyed that Sherlock would get so sentimental over silly things, such as toy bears, and would tell him to be more like Mycroft. Sherlock had resented his brother for being perfect and that was where their sibling rivalry stemmed from. However detached Mycroft was, when he saw that Sherlock’s masks had fallen to reveal so much fear and bitterness, he couldn’t deny that his brother meant a lot to him. He always had done.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Sherlock. I simply advised you against it to prevent this from happening.”

“What do you know about it?” Sherlock snapped, directing his anger towards his brother. Mycroft didn’t even flinch. “You’ve never lost anyone this important! You don’t care for humans!” The elder Holmes crouched down so he was eye-level with his brother.

“I think you’ll find, little brother, that I am not as heartless as you may think. I have in fact lost someone just as you have.” The storm of hatred stemmed into wonder, and Sherlock started to calm down at the thought of Mycroft - perfect Mycroft - making a similar mistake. Calm once more, Sherlock couldn’t prevent the storm of tears from re-surfacing. “It will be fine, Sherlock. You will forget him eventually.”


End file.
